


Together at Christmas

by ElizaG1



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Christmas, Getting to Know Each Other, Locked in room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaG1/pseuds/ElizaG1
Summary: Margaret is delivering a Christmas basket when she unexpectedly gets stuck in a room with  John Thornton. Will they reach an earlier understanding given the circumstances?
Relationships: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 225
Kudos: 277





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a mix of the BBC and novel universe. The timeline for both are a little wonky, but it is basically after Mr. Thornton has taken on Higgins and before Mr. Hale's death. I'm sticking Christmas right in the middle of it. Writing in progress, and it will be finished before Christmas day! Please leave comments!

With two gloved hands, Margaret clutched the Christmas basket she had carefully arranged for the Thorntons. She had spent much longer with Nicholas and Mary than she had anticipated, and now she feared she would be interrupting a late tea or early Christmas supper.

The large wooden gate to the mill was cracked opened, and the quiet of the yard unsettled her. It reminded her of the quiet during the strike, now several months ago. Marlborough Mills was closed on Christmas Day, allowing the workers to attend church and celebrate the day with their families. She had expressed her surprise when Higgins informed her the mill closes for Christmas. Mr. Thornton’s visits to Crampton were now infrequent, and although he would cite his work as the reason, Margaret knew it had more to do with avoiding her. Mr. Thornton had not spoken to her in weeks, so she could not even inquire after the challenging times for Marlborough Mills.

To Margaret’s surprise, the Thornton home was dark. She climbed the stairs slowly, conscious of the fact that the last time she had stood there was when she had thrown herself in the path of the workers to prevent harm coming to Mr. Thornton. It had ultimately cost her the tentative and tense acquaintance that her and Mr. Thornton had been cultivating. So much had changed since that day. Her mother was no longer with them. Mr. Thornton was no longer a consistent presence in her or her father’s life. Bessy had passed. Higgins had been out of work until Mr. Thornton took him on. And Margaret herself lived with the persistent guilt of the lie she told to protect Frederick. It had cost her a great many things, and she mourned the loss of Mr. Thornton’s good opinion. She wish the Thorntons would not think of her so ill. But there was little she was willing to do about it. She knocked loudly on their door.

In Helstone, the Hales would create Christmas baskets filled with an assortment of goods for their neighbors. Though they suffered the loss of Mrs. Hale, this year would be no different. Dixon was in no humor to create baskets for “these people,” and Margaret had not pressed her. Dixon had taken Mrs. Hale’s death hard. So Margaret took on the task. She assembled small baskets for Mr. Hale’s pupils, the Higgins family, and of course, the Thorntons. Their friends were few.

Margaret had braved the light snowfall to make her afternoon deliveries. She had taken tea and warmed up with Higgins and Mary, enjoying the joy the Boucher children had in the nuts, oranges, and small trinkets she had included in their basket. She had lingered, in part due to the trepidation she felt in seeing Mr. Thornton.

And now that it was clear she may not find him at home, she did not feel any less anxious. Margaret waited patiently for a servant, but when the door remained staunchly closed to her, she descended the stairs again. It was odd the family was away. She would have to deliver the basket tomorrow.

Margaret was halfway through the yard when she glanced towards the mill. It was not an impossibility that Mr. Thornton was working on Christmas. In fact, it would be most like him, she thought with a smile. With determination, Margaret walked to the office.

She had never been inside the mill while it was quiet. The shuffling of her dark green skirt was loud in the cavernous space. The office door was open, and she saw Mr. Thornton’s jacket on his chair and open ledgers on the table. Margaret hesitated. She could leave the basket at his desk, but that seemed cold and unfeeling. He may think she was avoiding him. She gathered her courage; she would look for him.

Margaret walked through the mill, passing rows and rows of quiet looms. She called out once for Mr. Thornton but received no reply. Still, she walked slowly through the mill, certain that he was somewhere.

She found herself in the far end of the mill, an area previously unknown to her, when she heard movement. A door was propped open ahead of her. The closer she walked towards it, the louder the sound became.

“Mr. Thornton?” she said quietly, peaking her head into the room. It was a small storage room, only a little larger than the entryway at Crampton. Crates of varying sizes made the space feel confined, and Mr. Thornton was leaning over a trunk, with his sleeves rolled up. The room had one window where scant sunlight, filtered through the gray winter sky, shone through. Mr. Thornton was lit by the small glow of a gas lamp beside him.

“Mr. Thornton?” Margaret asked again. She pulled on the heavy door to open it enough to allow her in. The weight of the door surprised her, and once she stepped in, it shut behind her. Mr. Thornton turned, clearly startled.

“Miss Hale,” John said, his eyebrows raising at her presence. “Do what do I owe this visit?”

“I am sorry to disturb you Mr. Thornton. I came to deliver a basket,” Margaret said sheepishly, wondering at herself for having searched almost the entirety of the mill. Her cheeks warmed slightly under his inquisitive gaze.

“A basket?” John repeated.

“Yes. For Christmas. A Christmas basket. No one answered at the house,” she explained, extending the basket to him. He did not take it.

“Fanny and my mother are at Watson’s. For a holiday supper. The servants have the evening off,” John said.

“Ah,” Margaret replied, nodding. The handle squeaked under her fingers as she fidgeted. 

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t,” Margaret said quickly, eager to fill the awkward silence between them. “Well, I decided to check the office as I thought perhaps you were working. And it was clear you were. I did not think I would have to come so far to find you though,” she said quietly.

“You should not wander around the mill by yourself,” John said sternly. The room was cold, he was barely an arm’s length away, and she felt her discomfort keenly. She did not appreciate being scolded.

“I will keep that in mind in the future,” Margaret said, forcing the basket into his hand. She nodded curtly and turned to leave.

“Thank you,” John said quickly, as her hand touched the doorknob. “It is kind of you, to think of us today.”

“You are welcome,” Margaret said. She sounded haughtier than she would have liked, but his tone had annoyed her. He was always annoying her. She tried to push the door open, but it did not move. She turned the knob, but it did not turn.

John watched her before taking a few steps to reach the door.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked. Margaret looked at him askance. His smile was almost a smirk, and she resented having to ask him for help.

“Please,” Margaret said, stepping aside. John exerted very little effort in his attempt to open the door. His brow furrowed when it did not give. Margaret watched curiously as he tried again, pushing against the door with his shoulder as he tried turning the stubborn knob.

“I think it is locked. Mr. Thornton, surely you must have the key?” Margaret inquired.

“Yes,” John replied, reaching into his pocket. The keyring had only one key on it, and he stuck it into the lock, turning with confidence. Only the key did not turn.

“Mr. Thornton, you need to open the door,” Margaret said, watching as his continued attempts failed.

“I am attempting to do just that,” John replied through clenched teeth.

“Here, let me,” Margaret said, moving to the door. John quickly moved to avoid standing closer than was proper to her. Margaret attempted to turn the key in the lock, but it would not move.

“Are you certain this is the right key?” she asked, trying to pull the key out of the lock to try it again. It did not come out. “I can’t take it out,” Margaret said, looking back to Mr. Thornton.

“Here,” John said. He pulled at the key, but it would not move. He was still holding the basket in one hand, and he handed it back to Margaret to use both hands on the door.

For several minutes, John tried to turn the key, push the door open with brute force, and jiggle the doorknob. Margaret stepped to the side when he used what limited space he had between the crates and the door to get a running start at the door. On his last attempt, he rubbed his shoulder. Margaret was about to suggest that brute force would likely not do anything, when Mr. Thornton tried the key again. Then sound of the snap echoed.

“Oh—” Margaret exclaimed as Mr. Thornton held up one half of a key. The key had broken in the lock. He looked from the lock to the key, stunned. Margaret moved to the door, her skirt brushed against him, as she knelt to look in the keyhole.

“The piece of the key is in there,” she confirmed. She used her fingers to try to get it out, but the keyhole was too small even for her dainty digits. In desperation, she rattled the knob again hoping that it would just open.

“Mr. Thornton, we need to get out,” she said, keeping the panic from her voice as best as she could. She could not be locked in a storage room with Mr. Thornton for any amount of time. Every second that went by was a minute they would need to account for. If they were discovered, there would be few who would believe it was an accident, and even fewer who would believe nothing untoward had happened.

“What would you suggest, Miss Hale?” he replied evenly, one hand still holding the broken key, and the other coming up to cover his mouth automatically as he contemplated the options.

Margaret looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed in frustration, then up to the window pane was the light was coming from. It was high above them, and she could tell it was too high even for Mr. Thornton to reach when standing on a crate. Margaret then dropped to her knees, examining the lock.

“Do you have any tools with you?” she asked.

“No,” came his reply.

“What were you doing in here then?” Margaret asked accusingly, as if the mere act of being in this storage room, no, his audacity of owning a mill with a storage room with an unreliable lock, was the reason she was now in this situation. 

“I was…” he began, his hands diving into his pockets as he looked towards the trunk he had been examining.

“Oh never mind,” Margaret said, lifting herself up from the floor to examine other parts of the door. “Your mother and Miss Thornton shall be back soon, and when they do not see you home, surely they will come look for you here as I did, and they are reasonable people who will understand the situation…” Margaret said, seeking confirmation for her assumptions.

“They were planning to stay late, for dinner. It is unlikely they will be home before ten. And then, they will have to notice I have not simply retired for the evening…” John said, a hint of apology in his voice when he trailed off, as the reality of their situation dawned on them both.

“But Mr. Thornton, it is not yet five,” Margaret said in disbelief.

They both moved towards the door at once, their hands reaching the knob at the same time, hers above his. Together, they tried to turn it. Then Margaret banged on the door.

“Help!” she yelled.


	2. Chapter 2

John shook his head as he ran his hand through his hair. There was not a worker in the mill. He had given them Christmas off, as was Marlborough Mill tradition. The servants had been dismissed for the evening. The Thorntons did not celebrate Christmas. They attended church, as was their duty, otherwise they acknowledged the day as little as possible. The death of his father had shrouded the season in grief. Hannah Thornton was at the Watson dinner only because Fanny was insistent on attending and needed a chaperone. John spent the holiday burying his grief by working in the quiet mill, year after year. And thusly this Christmas would have gone, if not for the appearance of Margaret Hale.

Margaret tired of shouting for help. He watched as she moved to one side of the room, and he followed suit by moving to the other. It made little difference. She was only a few feet away from him.

John gently leaned his head against the wall, next to the trunk he had been searching before her arrival. He tried to think of words of reassurance.

“They could return early,” he said. Margaret nodded absentmindedly, her eyes flickering around the small room, as if another door would manifest itself before those pretty and expressive eyes. John closed his own eyes for a moment, steadying himself.

The possibility of spending hours alone with Margaret Hale would have been welcome to him months ago, before the riot, when she was more of a novelty and an object of fascination. She arrived and broke through the gray of Milton like the warmth of the first spring day after a long winter. She was all grace, clever, and kind, and it was not long after declaring to his mother that he was in no danger of falling for her that she consumed his thoughts. Daily he wondered what she was doing, where she was going, what she was thinking. He convinced himself it was a passing infatuation until she saved him the day of the riot. Then, he knew he loved her.

But it was not to be. The months that had passed after his failed declaration had created a chasm between them. He had sworn to her he would continue to love her, and he had spoken the truth. There was not a day that went by that he did not think of her, long for her, and hate himself for his weakness and inability to stop his feelings for her. He knew she loved another enough to lie before God and the law, but this was not enough to douse the flame inside him that still burned for her. John open and closed his fists, flexing his fingers as he did so, to concentrate on something other than the ache in his chest when he thought of this reality. She was lost to him. Far away from him as ever, and yet painfully close.

When John opened his eyes again, his gaze fell on the dimly lit gas lamp he had brought with him. There was still enough light coming in from the outside to see the room clearly, and with any luck there would be for at least another hour before the winter night fell. Without knowing how brightly the moon would shine, it would not due to risk total darkness later. He reached over and turned off the light.

Margaret was standing primly at the other wall, her hands clasped in front of her. She had decided to take off her hat, which she set on a crate with the air of an empress in her throne room. Her hair was intricately arranged, held by an assortment of pins, including some with white pearls at the end, creating the effect of snowflakes on her dark hair. Her pins.

“Miss Hale,” John said, suddenly stepping towards her. “Perhaps I can unjam the lock using one of your hair pins.”

“Oh,” Margaret said, looking from the lock to John in deliberation. “It is worth an attempt,” she agreed, reaching up and choosing a pin carefully. A shame it did not cause any of her locks to fall onto her shoulder, a sight John often dreamt about. 

He cleared his throat and knelt to fiddle with the pin and lock. He planned to dislodge the broken key and then pick the lock.

He worked quietly for the most part, careful not to mutter in frustration as his patience grew thin. The room was cold, the light would soon be gone, and he needed to get Margaret home and away from him. He had not been to Crampton in a fortnight, citing the busy mill as an excuse. Truth be told, he was avoiding her, and he knew _she_ knew. They had not even spoken since he shared how he had taken Higgins on. Her joyful expression at the news was enough to warm his bitter heart momentarily, but he could not forget her betrayal.

He let out a small scoff at the thought. She did not belong to him, as she had made perfectly clear. Still, the thought of her risking her own integrity for this mysterious lover upset John more than he could understand. It tainted her. _He_ would never have left her so soon after her mother’s death, in her time of need, and _he_ would never have asked her to lie for him.

“Is there any hope?” Margaret said, interrupting his thoughts. John twitched; he had not noticed her move to stand beside him. She was leaning over to examine the lock, and her face was close to his.

“I don’t think so,” John said quietly, fidgeting with the pin and lock more forcefully.

“Here,” Margaret said, handing over a second pin. “Perhaps two will do the trick.”

He took her offering and tried to use both at once to pull the key out. His hands were increasingly clammy despite the cold. Margaret watched his progress intently, and the warmth of her breath on his cheek caused his skin to tingle. If he turned his face, he could kiss her. He furrowed his brow in concentration at the task at hand.

“Miss Hale,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. Did she usually have this effect on him? The feel of her hands on his neck the day of the riot lingered as a pleasant memory, but now, in the quiet of the room, where he could feel her every movement and hear her every noise, it was a sweet prison he needed to escape from.

“Yes?”

“Can you move back please? I need room to work,” he asked.

“Oh. Of course,” Margaret replied, moving backwards into the crate she had set the basket on.

He toiled at the keyhole, and eventually he made progress. If he leveraged the broken key with one pin, he could get it to move with the other. He just needed to move it enough to pop it out. While it seemed like it would work, the key was still firmly lodged in. His fingers were beginning to hurt from the intensity of his grip. With an annoyed grunt, he put the pins down and sat on the floor, rested his arms on his propped-up knees, and leant his head back into the door. He took a deep breath to ease the growing tension inside him. If they were unable to get out…

“We will get out or be rescued, Mr. Thornton. Dixon and my father will expect me home soon. Someone must find us. All will be well,” Margaret said, as if reading his thoughts. Her voice was reassuring. John looked at her, bemused, and she smiled softly.

“Someone finding us is precisely what I am afraid of, Miss Hale,” he responded. Her smile faded and she looked thoughtful at this. John allowed himself to observe her. At Crampton, he used to steal glances at her while her father spoke. He would watched how she prepared his tea, with two clumps of sugar as he preferred, and then hers- completely without sugar, to his surprise. He had seen how she spoke to his workers, with compassion and as equals. He noticed how her silver bracelet would fall down her arm, and how she would reflexively push it back up.

He wondered if she was wearing the same bracelet now. He could not tell with her arms hidden inside her cloak. It was for the best she kept that on, as the room was cold and growing colder. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the cold or in response to something else, he could not say. It did not matter to him. She was a beautiful sight.

The cold. He thought of his jacket in the mill office. Fiddling with the lock kept him moving, and he would need to keep moving if he wanted to stay warm. But he could not take his eyes off her.

“What is this room?” Margaret asked, suddenly meeting his gaze.

“Storage,” John replied, knowing the answer would not satisfy her.

“Yes, I can see that, but of what?” She could not keep her annoyance out of her voice. John kept a smile from his face.

“Old parts, mostly, for the machines. I salvage pieces I need to complete repairs,” he explained.

“I see. And you do repairs on Christmas? By yourself?”

“No,” he answered, truthfully. She glanced to the floor and then, deciding it would do, sat down across from him, leaning against a crate. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, as if she was sitting down for tea. The skirt of her dress brushed his foot. She was looking at the trunk he had been inspecting upon her arrival, now closed, but she did not say anything. John sighed. It was not in his nature to be evasive. Not with anyone, but especially not with her.

“I keep some personal belongings of my father here. Old accounting books, mostly. His sketchbook. Some drawings I made as a child that he kept in his office. I come here on difficult days. I have told you about the circumstances of my youth before. He died on the day before Christmas when I was not yet fifteen.”

“I am sorry,” Margaret said gently. Her hand moved, as if she was going to reach out to him, but then she seemed to think better of it. The sincerity in her voice moved him.

“We do not do much to mark the holiday, as you can see. I close the mill every year and I work. Fanny has been adamantly requesting a Christmas tree for a couple years now, but it does not feel like much of a festive time for me or mother. I do wonder if she accepted Watson because he has taken to putting up a tree in the last few years. It’s all the fashion, or so I am told,” John shared. Margaret smiled, and John returned it instinctively.

“It must be very difficult for all of you. This year is a challenge for us. Mother always loved this time of year,” Margaret said, looking at her hands in her lap.

John sat up, feeling like an imbecile for not remembering. It was her first Christmas without her mother.

“Miss Hale, I am sorry. I was going on about myself when your loss is so near. Forgive me.”

“Oh, Mr. Thornton, there is no need. I am sure you feel your loss as keenly as I do mine, and I am glad to hear you speak of it. It helps to know I am not alone in my feelings. Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever feel this grief less,” she said, her eyes finding his.

“It will stay with you. It has stayed with me. It’s a dull ache, and there are days I am more of aware of it than others. But it will not always be so bad, and it is always better when you do not have to bear it alone,” John explained. Margaret nodded.

They sat in silence. John stood up to work on the lock again, but the light from the window was dimming.

“Would you like the lamp?” Margaret asked quietly.

“No. I think we should preserve the gas, and this is futile anyway,” John replied, more sternly than he intended. He cursed softly to himself before standing up to pace. Margaret remained seated, and he felt her eyes on him. They must have been in the room for above an hour now. Margaret rose to her feet, retreating to the wall farthest from him. He watched her straighten her spine, and he recognized her stance. He braced himself.

“Mr. Thornton, I would like to be clear. Regardless of who finds us, you have no obligation to me,” she said.

“We both know that is not true, Miss Hale,” John replied, sticking his hands in his pockets for warmth. He reclined casually on the wall, but kept his eyes locked on hers.

“I can handle whatever situation arises from this. I do not consider it your duty to rescue me from gossip or…” Margaret began, and he smiled at her consistency before interrupting.

“You have already made that clear, Miss Hale. This situation is quite different. I have my own reputation to consider as well as yours,” John said plainly. He would never force her into a marriage, but their options were growing fewer by the minute. Margaret bowed her head for a moment before raising it again. Her chin perked out in defiance. To what exactly, John was not sure.

“I know it is different. You think me naïve, but I am not,” she said. “I just…I know you find my company insupportable at present, and it is not fair to you…” She trailed off.

John did not respond. He would do anything for Margaret. He already had. He would save her from any heartache or difficulty or trouble, even though she rarely needed or wanted to be save. And he would save her from him.

“I do need the lamp. Will you hold it up for me?” John asked, returning to the door to resume his efforts with her hair pins and the lock.

“Yes, of course,” Margaret said, shuffling to the lamp and then beside him. She turned it on enough for his use and held it. John took a breath, now relishing her proximity and how she smelt of roses and home. He was determined to set her free.


	3. Chapter 3

Margaret had never seen Mr. Thornton looking so disheveled. He had no jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms. He still wore his cravat, though it and his hair were more tousled than usual. With the aid of the light of a dim lamp, she was close enough to see the shadow of the evening stubble forming on his face. He smelled of soap and the mill. The smells of Milton had been jarring to her at first, but she found she liked the combination of freshly spun cotton and machine that permeated Marlborough Mills. A small bead of sweat had formed on his forehead. She wondered if she should use her handkerchief to wipe his brow. Margaret’s cheeks warmed at the intimacy of her examination of him and was startled out of her own thoughts by his sudden movement.

“I got it!” John yelled as the key half tinkled onto the floor.

“It will open?” Margaret exclaimed.

“Well, no, but the broken piece is out, and now I can pick the lock,” he said with an unguarded grin at her. Margaret shared in his enthusiasm. 

“Well done,” she said. They would be out soon enough, she thought.

It was over an hour since dislodging the key and at over two hours since she had arrived to the mill. Margaret had repositioned herself and sat beside Mr. Thornton, her arm tiring from holding the lamp up. He had requested more pins from her, as pin after pin bent or broke in his attempts. Her updo was loosened, but still in place. In frustration, he finally threw the last hairpin she had given him across the storage room, where she heard it clink against the wall before ricocheting back and landing in between them. He cursed under his breath and sat against the door in defeat. Margaret silently moved to sit against the door beside him. She turned the lamp off and let her eyes adjust to the room.

It had grown dark, but the moon was glowing through the window such that she could see him well-enough. The silence was not pleasant, as she could feel the frustration radiating from him.

“I saw Nicholas today,” she blurted out, eager to distract him from the problem at hand. He made a noncommittal noise to acknowledge her statement. Margaret was undaunted. Her hand moved to the hairpin on the ground between them, and she fidgeted with it as she spoke, spinning it on its head.

“I brought them a basket. You know, when I first met Bessy Higgins, she did not know what to make of me and I of her. I wanted to bring a basket to them, as an act of friendship, but I was terrified of offending her. When I told her this, she said the people of Milton are good at finding offense if there is even a remote possibility of doing so. She said it would take at least a couple years for _me_ to acclimate,” Margaret chuckled to herself at the memory. She leaned her head against the door, looking wistfully up to the window, her hand still absentmindedly fidgeting with her hairpin.

“Bessy and Nicholas were my first friends in Milton. Mary is quiet, but she is coming into her own. They have been very kind to me. So have you,” Margaret said. She felt him turn to look at her, but she did not return his gaze.

“Bessy was astute. It did take me some time to get used to life here. Milton is very different, but I find myself warmed to it now. I sometimes wonder how I kept myself occupied in Helston. There is idleness in that little hamlet. Here, there is always somewhere to go or something to do. And there is none of the artifice of London that I used to detest.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Helston? Of course I do. I enjoy the greenery, and it is a place where I have fond memories of my mother. But home is here now, with my father. London…well, I only miss Edith. I have learned that home is more about the people than the place.”

“I am sorry about Bessy, Miss Hale. I should have said that to you before,” John said quietly. “She worked here…”

“Yes. She did not get sick here, Mr. Thornton. Nicholas moved her here because it was better for her.”

“I do what I can to keep my hands healthy—”

“Must you refer to them that way? Your _hands_ are people, Mr. Thornton. With hearts and minds, too,” Margaret chastised.

“I never said they weren’t. How were the children?”

Margaret wanted to argue further but thought better of it. She eyed him for a moment before answering, “As well as all children are on Christmas. Tom was reading a Christmas poem I had included in their basket. The oldest girl, Jane, has taken to helping Mary, and they had made quite a small feast for themselves. Nicholas and Mary are doing a fine job with them.”

“Higgins is a good man,” John affirmed. Margaret turned to look at him now, surprised.

“Are you allowed to speak so well of a _hand_ , Mr. Thornton?” she asked in mock surprise.

“Being a good man is beyond masters and workers. Doing right by those children, his work ethic. His scheme opening the kitchen. That is enough to know his character.”

“I am sure Mr. Hamper would have a thing or two to say about that. Best not be letting any of the masters hear you speak so well of a worker,” Margaret teased. “You know, I said a similar thing to Nicholas the other day when he was visiting with Tom. He is starting not to think so ill of you,” she smiled at him.

“Does Higgins visit often?”

“Not as often as I would like. He brings Tom in for supper occasionally, or Nicholas will come speak to father. We do not receive many visitors. Father misses your company, Mr. Thornton.” Margaret drew her knees up close to her, fidgeting to find a comfortable position on the ground. She propped an elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand, turning to her right to look at him.

“I have been busy at the mill,” John responded curtly, avoiding her eyes.

Margaret took a deep breath and hoped she could speak in a way that would not cause offense or incite his temper. She did not regret her rejection, but she did lament the way things were between them. She regretted that she could not be more open with him about Frederick, to try to explain her actions. At least before the riot they could speak, or debate, freely, without so much weighing on them both. After his misguided proposal, Margaret often thought about how at least he was a person who spoke what he felt when he felt it. She preferred his Northern rawness. It was a welcome change from a lifetime of attempting to maintain harmony in the Hale household when her parents were not honest with each other and no one spoke candidly about their feelings to the people who needed to hear it. Gathering her courage, she spoke.

“You do not come because of me.”

John was silent, suddenly extremely interested in the wall in front of him.

“I do not fault you for not wanting to see me. I understand it, though I am sorry for it,” Margaret resumed her fiddling with her hairpin. She spun it on its head, and when it teetered over, it made a tinkling sound that filled the silence between them.

“Sorry for what?” John finally asked. Margaret winced at the hardness of his tone.

“I regret the loss of your company, is all,” Margaret said as calmly as possible. He turned to look at her and their eyes met. She could see a question in his eyes, and she told her heart to have courage. They could at least be friends. “For my father’s part and my own.”

He looked away from her then, and she suppressed a sigh. He still thought so poorly of her. When he was not right in front of her, she could at least pretend that the loss of his good opinion did not bother her. But it did. And she did not understand why.

“We should try again,” she said quietly. She reached for the hairpin on the floor at the same time he did and their hands collided, their fingers almost entwined over the hairpin.

“I can try for a bit,” she said, and he retracted his hand and scooted himself out of her way, turning on the lamp as he did so to help light her way. He held it up for her.

Margaret examined it before sticking her hairpin inside the lock again.

“There is a mechanism on the side,” John explained, “At least I think there is. If you listen, you can hear the hairpin push against something that makes a click. It’s a small spot, and you have to hit it just right.” Margaret angled the hairpin and pressed, and she could feel a slight give in the lock, as if she was hitting a gear of sorts, but the hairpin bent the more she pushed. John moved the light closer to the lock, and her face grew hot from the heat.

“I can feel the latch or whatever it is,” she said. She quickly reached for another hairpin, taking it out without thinking, and a few strands of her hair fell into her face. She tried to use the second pin to leverage the first, but they were too weak. It explained why John kept breaking them; the iron was too heavy for the hairpins. If she could push a tiny bit harder and not have it break…

“I almost have it,” Margaret said with quiet anticipation, concentrating. She moved her head to encourage the hair that was falling into her eyes to move. It did not, so her vision remained slightly obscured. She huffed in annoyance, her focus not breaking from the task at hand, until she felt John’s hand suddenly at her face. He brushed the strands of hair behind her ear. It was fast, certainly coming from his natural helpful impulse to fix problems he sees, for when Margaret glanced at him, he wasn’t looking at her and didn’t seem to even realize what he had done, and just as soon as her focus broke, so did both the hairpins, the lock no closer to opening than before.

Margaret cursed loudly and stepped away in frustration. There was no possibility they would be able to pick the lock with weak hairpins. She turned away from Mr. Thornton and rubbed her eyes, squinting away the tears that were forming in exasperation. She had cursed only a few times in her life, the most memorable of which was when she fell off a tree she had climbed and sprained her ankle something awful the summer before Frederick left for the Navy. Her mother had been nearby and washed her mouth out with soap, though Margaret had always felt it had been an aptly timed word. Margaret took a deep breath, counted to five, and composed herself. It would not do to act so unladylike in the presence of the most gentleman-like man in Milton. Especially when he already thought poorly of her. She fixed her hair, using the couple of small remaining hairpins to keep it up and looking what she hoped was passable, if less elegant. She turned to face him again.

“Mr. Thornton, I must apologize for my outburst…what is so humorous?” Margaret said, astounded to see him smiling at her and clearly suppressing a chuckle.

“Forgive me, Miss Hale, I just have never…well, I’ve never heard you speak in such a way. It’s completely appropriate and…endearing. You don’t need to apologize to me,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the door again. Margaret glared at him.

“This is no time for teasing,” she replied.

“You are right,” he said, straightening his face. Or attempting to. Margaret felt a smile reluctantly break through her ire. The least they could do is face their situation with good humor.

“I suppose all of this is absurd. What are we going to do now, Mr. Thornton?”

“Have supper,” he replied casually.

“Excuse me?”

“Is there food in that Christmas basket?” 

Margaret smiled, “Of course there is. I assemble baskets of the highest quality.”

“I do not doubt it,” John replied. “Let’s eat.”


	4. Chapter 4

Margaret’s basket sat on a short and small crate in the center of the room. She opened the tea towel that covered the contents.

“There are oranges and red wine, and I made roasted hazelnuts and chestnuts, sugar cookies, and a small fruit cake.” Margaret said, holding an example of each item up. John watched her, a sparkle still in his eyes. Suddenly, an idea struck her. Margaret moved the basket from the crate, and the tea towel from the basket. She sat down on one side of the crate and spread the towel across it, smoothing out the wrinkles. With care, removed two of the oranges, two cookies, the tin that held the nuts, the red wine, and the fruitcake, and placed each on her crate-turned-table.

“Please do be seated, Mr. Thornton. We may have an adequate supper yet.”

John smiled at this, all the while marveling at her fortitude. It was as though she were not on a filthy floor in a cramped storage room. She looked as though she was in the grandest parlor in England, with a table set with consideration for him. He stood and moved to the center, sitting across the crate from her, stretching one leg and resting his arm on his other propped up leg.

Margaret removed her gloves and began peeling an orange, her nails digging into the rind and easily pulling the skin from the fruit inside.

“As a child in Helston, I used to hate oranges,” Margaret said, her eyes on her orange. John peeled his own without taking his eyes of Margaret.

“I detested the stringy bits. Mother loved oranges, and she made sure Dixon would get some when they were available. I think I would not have disliked them as much if she was not so insistent on us eating them during the summers I was home,” Margaret said absently. She was now separating a slice and removing the excess string.

“But then when I was at Harley street, in London, we never had oranges. Aunt Shaw thought they were too unrefined and messy. I found I missed them more than I thought I would. One time, when I was nine, I decided to go outside unattended for a walk,” Margaret paused to chew her slice.

“You escaped?” John offered. Margaret smiled.

“You could say that. I wandered around and saw a stand with oranges. I took one. I had no money on me, of course, and when the grocer saw me, he yelled. I turned and ran. I do not think I have ever run so fast in my life, before or since. All the way back to Harley street, clutching my orange. I sat on the steps and ate it before anyone could take it from me. Of course Mrs. Ainsley, our governess, had noticed my absence by then, and you could imagine her surprise when the footman brought me in, sticky with orange juice on my hands, face and dress, and no explanation for the orange peels in my dress pocket.”

John laughed, a full laugh. Margaret wondered if she had ever heard him laugh before. The sound pleased her.

“I would never have suspected you to act like a common street urchin, Miss Hale,” he said warmly.

“No, and I daresay it as the only time I acted such. Perhaps I should not have confessed to a magistrate. Surely there’s a statute of limitations on pilfering oranges?” she joked. And then suddenly, the air seemed to go from the room. Her breath hitched as she realized she had brought them too close to the assistance he had already provided in his capacity as the local magistrate.

Margaret averted her eyes from his, concentrating instead on the pile of orange peel he had made on the table. His silence and stony countenance made her think he was reflecting on the same. Margaret could not bear the silence.

“Mr. Thornton…” she began.

“No, Miss Hale,” he stated firmly.

“Your refusal to accept my gratitude will not prevent me from feeling or expressing it,” she said, her eyes lifting to his in defiance. How he frustrated her!

“I have told you before, I do not want or need your gratitude. It is enough to know I spared your father of--”

“Of what?” Margaret interrupted, her cheeks growing hot as her anger swelled.

“Of the unpleasantness that would arise from an inquest after you _lied_ to Inspector Mason,” John said bitterly.

There it was. Margaret was silent. The thought of her own dishonesty and his displeasure stung her.

“Do you still refuse to explain yourself?” John asked, clearly struggling to keep his tone even and temper in check.

Margaret looked away from him, and John stood up in frustration, walking a step back to the wall to create the little physical distance he could between them. He turned away from her and spoke into the darkness.

“If my mother discovers us, I may be able to spare you from a connection to me. Between the three of us, we could construct a believable story. But if we are not rescued until morning by a hand…there will be no way out for either of us. I know how disappointing this will be for you and your lover, whoever and wherever he is,” John said piercingly.

“My _what_?” Margaret nearly shouted in response. 

When John did not respond, Margaret stood up, bringing herself to her full height, even though he still towered over her. She spoke firmly and loudly.

“Sir, you have taken great pains to make clear what you think of me. Of course it would be insupportable for us to be connected in such a way when there is so little respect and trust between us. No, when _you_ do not trust _me_. Why can you not believe me when I say it is not what you think? I have no lover…I have never and would never…there is no one else...,” Margaret was too angry to continue. As was often the case when she was frustrated, and for the second time this evening, her eyes became wet with tears, and she resented her lack of composure around him. She was simply incensed at his insinuation. So incensed, in fact, that she did not notice the _else_ that had inadvertently escaped her lips, and so could not examine its meaning.

John eyed her carefully. His heart ached to believe her, but he could not reconcile her defense with what he had seen with his own eyes at Outwood Station, and what he knew from Inspector Mason. She had lied on behalf of a man, and she was tainted in his eyes for it. It was all he had to cling to in his efforts to forget her.

Margaret wiped the edge of her eyes with the back of her hand, one finger leaving a light smudge of dust on her cheek.

“Mr. Thornton, I know what people are saying. I know what you and your mother think of me. And I bear it all because I must. I will spare you from me if I can. You do not deserve such…such an association. Let us hope we are found by a sympathetic party.”

Margaret turned away from him to look at her own side of the room, her hands clasped in front of her. She considered her options. Frederick was now safely in Spain. She wondered if it would do Frederick harm to speak the truth now. She pondered this until he spoke, and she granted him the courtesy of turning to face him.

“I have tried to forget what I saw. I cannot tell you how much this has pained me. It has driven me near mad. I work, and work, and work, to save this mill, but also because if I did not, I would just sit and think of you,” John’s voice was raised, but Margaret was neither alarmed nor cowed. Not as much as she had been the day after the riot.

He softened before continuing, “And every evening, it takes every ounce of what little self-preservation I have to not walk the two miles to Crampton to replace my solitary suffering with the sweet agony of your company.”

Margaret stared, wide-eyed at his blunt vulnerability. She felt her cheeks warm, a welcomed feeling in the coldness of the storage room.

“Mr. Thornton…”

“The coroner found nothing suspect. There was no reason for an inquest. I never told anyone what I saw. I wanted to prevent further stress on your family, so soon after your mother’s passing.”

“My family,” Margaret repeated. “Yes, my family. I thank you for protecting us. Mr. Thornton, surely you can understand that I _always_ act in the best interest of my family,” she said, her own harsh tone surprising her.

“I am sure my father has never told you, but I broke the news to my mother that we were leaving Helston when my father could not bear to do so. Dixon and I cared for my mother to spare my father; he could not even understand the severity of her illness or bear to acknowledge the cause. I love my father, and I will always choose those I love above myself. I already have,” Margaret’s tears were now falling, a year of pent-up anger, frustration, pain and loneliness falling out with them. “I lied to the inspector to protect Frederick.”

John listened, rapt with attention, his ice-blue eyes falling intently on her face. Margaret was undaunted. There was no way out now but through.

“Frederick is my brother. He lives in Spain. He was in the Navy.” With growing certainty, Margaret recounted Frederick’s part in the mutiny against his violent captain, how she wrote to Frederick to beg him to visit their mother, the solace he provided Mrs. Hale in her final days, and how Leonards recognized him.

“When the inspector came to inquire about the incident at Outwood Station, Frederick was still in the country. The night we were at the station, he was taking to the train to London to seek legal counsel from Henry Lennox. I could not risk Frederick being found out. I made the choice to lie about being present. I would do it again, to protect Frederick, but I know what it cost me in your eyes and God’s. I have asked for absolution,” Margaret’s tears had stopped. She wanted to say how much she had wanted absolution from Mr. Thornton but knew in her heart that her desire for his forgiveness so greatly was blasphemous.

“He was your brother?”

“Yes. I fear I will never see him again,” Margaret said. She had not spoken so freely with anyone since Bessy’s death. “Henry tried to find other men from the ship to make statements to attest to the captain’s cruelty, but it is more difficult than we imagined. Other men were tried and found guilty. You must understand, Mr. Thornton, my brother and the others involved did what was just in standing up against the captain’s cruelty.”

“I do understand. Unfortunately, for many, the law has little to do with justice. The Navy does not take kindly to mutineers. It was a risk for him to be in the country at all,” John said.

“Mother wanted to see him. When I wrote to him, I only had some idea of the risk. It was not until he was here, and we had to work so hard to conceal his presence, and then seeing you at the station…it cost me many a sleepless night. But it brought mother comfort in her final days, and for that I am glad,” Margaret said. She struggled to wipe the tears from her face, feeling the grime from her hands on her cheeks. John reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. He took a few steps closer to her as he held it out.

“Thank you,” Margaret said quietly as she took it. She dabbed her eyes, and they were silent a long while. Margaret held onto his handkerchief firmly. She stared wistfully at an expertly embroidered JGT in the corner, surrounded by carefully stitched red roses. There was a growing sense of relief of finally having explained her actions to him. His deep, reassuring voice, brought her back into the room.

“Why did you not tell me? I could have been of some assistance.”

Margaret laughed lightly through her tears, surprising herself and John. “Of your willingness to help I have no doubt, Mr. Thornton. But you are a magistrate. I did not want to put you in a difficult situation. Moreover, my problems are my own.”

“You take too much onto yourself, Miss Hale,” he said carefully. Margaret shook her head.

“I do what any daughter and sister would,” she said dismissively.

“Why do you never acknowledge how extraordinary you are?” John replied. “You bear all of this, alone, with grace and calm.”

“Have you not done as much and more for your family? You have worked hard to provide for your mother and sister. They are lucky to have you,” Margaret said. John smiled but shook his head.

“I do what any son and brother would,” he echoed. Margaret gave him a half-smile.

“And I would do it all again for them. You and I are much more alike than I had considered before,” John said.

“Perhaps. That may well be why we cannot go half an hour without quarrelling,” Margaret said, her eyes fluttering up as she smiled at him.

“I am sorry for judging you harshly, Miss Hale. Your brother had nothing to do with Leonards’ death, and you were right to protect him,” John said. Their eyes met. Margaret could not read his expression, though it looked softer than she had seen it in a long while.

His words, look, and manner together lifted a weight from Margaret’s heart. She took a fortifying yet shaky breath and smiled.

“Let us speak no more of it,” she said. John nodded, though he was still distracted by his thoughts.

Margaret sat on the floor again, and John followed suit across from her. For a moment she fidgeted with his handkerchief before placing it on the table for him to take back. A pang of hunger struck her then, and she remembered their food.

Margaret opened the tin of roasted nuts and offered it to John. He took two silently.

She fastidiously picked at the nuts, holding the tin close to the lamp.

“What is it?” John asked.

“I do not care for chestnuts, so I am trying to see which are hazelnuts and which are chestnuts,” Margaret answered, lifting a nut up to the light before eating it.

“Why did you make roasted chestnuts then?”

“Two reasons. The first, Mr. Dickens mentions them in his tale, so I think of them at Christmas now.”

“I remember. And the second?”

“I watched you eat chestnuts at your dinner party. Quite a bit of them, actually,” Margaret replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. John stared at her.

She picked out another nut and was about to return it to the tin when John stuck out his hand. She placed the chestnut in his palm. Thus they ate, with Margaret handing over each nut she did not want, each only eating what they preferred. After some time, he spoke.

“We can,” John said quietly, returning to their previous conversation.

“Pardon?”

“We _can_ go half an hour without quarrelling. We have tonight,” John explained.

“I suppose that’s likely true. I have lost track of time,” Margaret said thoughtfully.

John wiped his fingers on the cloth before pulling out his pocket watch from his vest. It was a quarter to nine. He reached across the crate to place it in her hand, closing her fingers around it and enclosing her hand in his. The light of the lamp cast an ethereal glow on her face, and John basked in it.

“You can keep time and see,” he said.

“Starting now?”

“Starting now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eagerly awaiting your reactions!


	5. Chapter 5

“Your hand is cold, Mr. Thornton,” Margaret said brightly, and she did not seem bothered by his touch. John smiled as he moved his hand back.

His head was spinning. The man at the station was her brother. John had been so very mistaken. He could clearly see the remorse she felt for the lie, though he no longer faulted her for it. No, instead his admiration swelled, and he felt in awe of the strength of her character to endure such hardships in her time in Milton. This revelation cured him of the bitterness that for months had helped him keep his passion in check. Now the passion he felt for her was renewing inside him, unabated, fiercer, and more zealous than before.

He meant what he said– she was extraordinary in every way. And he wished he had not let jealousy overtake his reason and his heart. How he had suffered! But now, she alleviated his worst fear – _there is no one else_ – and in its place appeared a shimmer of hope that what Margaret had meant was _there is no one else but you_. Could it be?

John felt dazed by his thoughts, and he tried to divert his thinking back to their present situation. The gas lamp was providing a small amount of light for the room. The moon glowed in the window above them. It was growing late. He wondered if his mother and Fanny were home yet. He contemplated whether yelling for help would do any good now, but they were so far back in the mill it was unlikely anyone could hear them from the house. Still, John knew whatever his own feelings were, he needed to get her out of this situation.

“I am not sure there is a proper way to drink this,” Margaret’s words interrupted his thoughts. She was gesturing to the wine. “I should not have much, but I am parched. It must have been the nuts,” she mused.

John marveled at her, relishing this newfound intimacy, the chasm between them filling with her sincerity and his own renewed eagerness to know her better.

“I don’t mind sharing,” John said and pulled the cork out with a pop. He handed it to her and hoped she would not find it vulgar.

“To your health,” she said, her eyebrows raised.

“And Christmas,” John interjected. Margaret smiled.

“And new beginnings,” she added. Then she took a drink directly from the bottle.

They drank a few sips like this, passing the wine back and forth. It was not lost on John that his lips were touching the same place hers did. The wine warmed him from the inside out. The last time he felt this way was at the dinner party. She was a remarkable sight then, and he should have told her so.

“What is humoring you, sir?” Margaret asked, spotting the smile that was creeping onto his face.

“I was thinking about Slickson’s face when you spoke at the dinner. He looked as though you had sprouted multiple heads simply for having the audacity to suggest we should look at all sides of an issue,” John said, then he chuckled. “He and Henderson were gaping like trout.”

“I recall that _you_ had plenty to say. You were none too pleased and that was quite plain to me,” Margaret accused. There was a huff in her voice that John so adored, especially when it came with the playful smile she was giving him.

“We disagreed, Miss Hale, but you made your points well. I was not displeased with you,” he defended himself. He had admired her for her tenacity in speaking on behalf of the hands – workers – to his unsympathetic guests, and although he did not agree with her, he found her clarity and vivacity endearing.

“Well, I was certainly on my own that night. Honestly, it is difficult for me to tell when you are displeased with me or not. You are always so stern,” Margaret said innocently. She straightened her spine further, making herself sit up taller, and then in an amusingly deep voice said, “‘ _Here in the North, we value our independence_.’”

“Is that supposed to be me?” John asked, smiling broadly before pretending to be offended. “You are unjust, Miss Hale.”

Margaret let out a glittering laugh, like how Fanny laughed when Watson said something even slightly amusing, but without the artifice. Margaret had never laughed like that before in his company, and he felt as though he had won a prize he had always been unconsciously competing for.

“I am thankful now for your penchant for baskets,” John said, offering her the wine again. She shook her head, and he recorked it. He had enough to quench his thirst and not too much to cloud his thinking, though she now had a delightful pink on her cheeks. He needed to keep a clear head if he were to remain in close quarters with her overnight, and that was the direction they were heading in. She was intoxicating enough without wine. He tasted one of the cookies instead. It was harder and chalkier than he anticipated, and he chewed and swallowed with some difficulty. He coughed and reached for the wine again, clearing his throat with a last drink. Margaret looked at him expectantly.

“Well?” she asked. John stared.

“Well?” he replied blankly.

“What do you think of it?” Margaret inquired.

“Did you make it?” he asked, cautiously. Margaret smiled.

“I am not answering that question until you tell me what you thought of it.”

John now felt himself more trapped than he had all evening.

“They are…I appreciate that you made them for us,” John said, and Margaret laughed. He felt triumphant again.

“How diplomatic of you, Mr. Thornton. I am not a good baker. It is more of a science than I have patience for. The fruit cake is no better, I am afraid. All the fruit is at the bottom.”

“You made this all yourself?” he asked, surprised. He imagined her working in the kitchen, rolling out dough, covered in flour. It was certainly a pretty picture.

“Yes, unfortunately for you,” Margaret said with a giggle.

“On the contrary, I think I am most fortunate,” John said without thinking as he put down the uneaten half of his cookie. He stood then, his legs sore from sitting so long in one attitude on the floor. He rolled down his sleeves, trying to conserve what little heat his body produced.

Margaret rose to her feet as well, walking in a circle to stretch her legs. “Are you very cold?” she asked with concern, noticing his sleeves.

“I left my overcoat in the office,” John explained with a shrug. There was nothing for it, and he would survive.

“We need to keep warm, both of us,” Margaret said thoughtfully, still walking in a circle. She put his watch in her pocket for safe keeping and then swayed her hands as she walked. Abruptly, she stopped and turned to face him, determined. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

“I have an idea! And you are at liberty to tell me this is ridiculous, but I think it will help keep us warm,” she said. John stuck his hands in his pockets as he looked at her with curiosity. He had many ideas for staying warm, none of which he would ever suggest, so he waited. 

“Dancing,” Margaret suggested, smiling, “I have not danced in ages.”

“There is not much space to waltz,” John replied skeptically, but he was intrigued.

“Nonsense,” Margaret replied, bending over to push the crate they had used as a table towards the wall to create more room for them. “We must stay warm, and besides, I am tired of being still,” she stated resolutely before standing in the middle of the room, raising her chin up.

“Is this your idea or the wine’s?” John asked cautiously. Margaret chuckled and tilted her head at him, her hands crossing in front of her.

“You overestimate the effect of a bit of wine on me, and you underestimate my boldness and how cold I am. Now, my card is empty for the next set. I would prefer not to sit it out please,” Margaret said, using an exaggerated tone as if she were in a London ballroom.

John, his eyebrows raised in skepticism and amusement, inclined his head to her in a small bow and then extended his hand. She took it, but then recoiled.

“Your hand is still cold,” Margaret protested, though she was genuinely worried.

“I seem to have misplaced my evening gloves,” John jested as he rubbed his hands together and blew into them for warmth. “I am well, Miss Hale,” he reassured as he saw her look of concern.

“Very well, and all the more reason for this,” Margaret said. She could not hide her amusement, and it encouraged a smile out of John. She tried again and delicately placed her palm in his while resting her other hand on his shoulder.

John’s other hand effortlessly found her back underneath her cloak. He welcomed the warmth he found there. His pressed lightly and noticed her smile waver, though he was not sure how to read her reaction. She recovered, her chin perking up, and started to hum a tune. He began to lead. 

Her humming faded as her curiosity grew. Even though they were confined to a limited square, it was enough to ascertain his skill level and generate some warmth to both their cheeks as he moved them back and forth.

“Do you attend balls often, Mr. Thornton?” Margaret asked.

“No, Miss Hale,” he said formally, his voice deep. “Milton does not have occasion for many balls.”

“How have you become so proficient, if I may inquire?”

“Fanny needed a partner to practice with,” John replied. His lips slowly turned upwards as he recollected a memory from long ago. “Let us just say she had little patience for mistakes. It was a long time before she allowed me to wear shoes while we practiced, for her own safety, and I had to be quick to dodge many a frustrated kick.”

Margaret laughed, imaging a much younger Mr. Thornton moving through that dreary house with Fanny scolding him at every misstep.

“Frederick was always the much better dancer. He would let me stand on his toes until I was too old to do that. And then when I was nine, I refused to attend lessons entirely. The instructor was incessantly scolding me about my posture. And I never allowed my partner to lead. If you could believe that,” Margaret shared. Mr. Thornton let go to twirl her, their fingers still entwined, once then twice. She laughed, surprised, light from spinning and the elation of speaking freely about Frederick. She had not felt so well since before Bessy died.

“You have always had a mind of your own then,” John said as they came together again. If Margaret was not imagining things, he had pulled her closer.

“Would you expect anything less?”

“Never.”

They were silent for a few turns. Mr. Thornton attempted to widen their path slightly, only to bump into the wall.

“Careful,” Margaret said with a giggle. She tightened the grip on his shoulder to steady him, and he steered them back to the center of the small room.

The movement was warming her, and his persistent gaze was causing an unfamiliar fluttering in her stomach. The feeling was pleasant, but it unsettled her, nonetheless. She closed her eyes momentarily. She tried to give a name to the sensation inside her, but the only thing that came to mind was that she somehow felt less lonely, in this tiny room with only John Thornton for company, than she had in a long time. She was always aware of his presence in any room they were in together, but this was the first time his presence felt as if it was filling an emptiness inside her.

Margaret opened her eyes to find Mr. Thornton’s face very close to hers. She could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. Her eyes fell to his lips intuitively, and for the first time she wondered what they felt like. They seemed soft, in contrast to his usual stern face and coarse hands. Margaret’s hand unconsciously fidgeted in his, and her fingers caressed a callous on his palm, and then another.

“Do you feel warmer?” Margaret asked quietly, forcing her eyes upward towards his, her voice sounding strained. His gaze was soft, and their movement had stopped, though neither of them had relaxed from their dancing positions.

“Much warmer.”

“I am glad,” she said. She gazed up at him, expectation welling up inside her.

“Miss Hale…” John murmured.

“Yes?” Margaret whispered. Her breathing quickened at the sound of his voice, and she could hear her heart in her ears. She tightened her grip on his shoulder. 

Their lamp extinguished, plunging the room into darkness.

Margaret gasped in surprise and let go of his hand. She stepped back and landed against a wall. He had not immediately released her, and his hand slipped slowly away from her back as she withdrew.

“Our eyes will adjust,” John said quietly.

The moonlight filtered in through clouds, and it was enough to make out his features if he moved into the light. Margaret nodded before realizing he could not see her, as she had backed into a dark corner. “Yes,” she agreed aloud.

Margaret was grateful for the privacy the unexpected darkness provided her as she attempted to slow the rapid beating of her heart. This room, let alone Margaret herself, was no longer large enough to contain all the feelings and questions that were rushing to the surface. Why did she care so much about what he thought of her? Why had she missed his visits to Crampton? Why did she have a new habit of speaking openly of his virtues to her father and Nicholas? Why had she braved the snow to deliver a basket? Why had she wanted to see him on Christmas? Why did she have the distinct impression that not only had he been about to kiss her, that she would have welcomed it? Her breath caught.

But it was too late for all of this, Margaret thought. He had overcome his feelings and went out of his way to make it clear to her that he no longer cared for her. Surely, she was imagining things. Did she even know what it looked or felt like when someone wanted to kiss her? He frequently looked at her in that way and spoke to her in that tone. Margaret needed to dissuade herself of any foolish romantic notions that were now filling her mind. He had said earlier in the evening that this situation would force his hand into marrying her. He clearly did not want to. Whatever this feeling was inside her, she needed to bury it.

“Are you well, Miss Hale?” John asked, startling her out of her thoughts. He had moved closer to her in the darkness, and she could barely make out his features, mostly because she knew them from memory.

“What is the time?” she asked, avoiding his question and his eyes, before remembering she had the watch in the pocket of her dress. She pulled it out to check and had to hold it up to the moonlight. Ten. Margaret leaned against the wall before sinking to the floor, holding the watch tightly in her hands. She felt exhausted and dazed.

She must have looked dreadful because John knelt in front of her. His proximity made her ache in a way she did not understand, and she wished he would either return to the other side of the room or…

“Miss Hale?”

“I am well, thank you,” Margaret said and forced out a polite smiled. “I would just very much like to be home,” she confessed suddenly. Things made more sense at home, and she could return to being calm, composed, reserved Margaret Hale. Why was she like _this_ around him? He brought out an impulsive and uninhibited side of her. Running out in front of an angry mob? Openly challenging him at every opportunity, even in his own home and mill? Asking him to dance with her? She was ridiculous, and she felt her cheeks warm with shame at what he must truly think of her.

“I understand,” John murmured, though the tenderness that had previously been there was now gone. Margaret could sense rather than see his disappointment.

“Mr. Thornton…” she wanted to reassure him, of what she was not sure, even when she felt a twinge of irritation at how he was quick to misunderstand her. Though she knew she had once been quick to misunderstand him, too.

“You should rest, Miss Hale,” John said, and he moved to stand. She raised her hand and grabbed his, stopping him. There she went again. Impulsive. His presence was enough to undo years of well-rehearsed manners. She was all instinct now, emboldened by the darkness.

Margaret wondered if this is what husbands and wives were like in private. Her parents loved each other, though she knew their marriage had been more difficult towards the end of her mother’s life. Had her mother and father felt what she felt now- an overwhelming desire for Mr. Thornton to be beside her? Was that love? Edith and Captain Lennox were madly in love, Margaret knew. Why had Margaret never thought to asked Edith what it felt like? Was she just expected to know and understand it?

“Please, sit with me,” Margaret implored. “It is warmer that way,” she reasoned.

“If you wish,” he said and sat beside her. Their shoulders touched. That was enough for Margaret. She brought her knees up and hugged herself.

It struck Margaret that the only person who had ever spoken to her about love was right here in this very room. _He_ knew what it felt like, for he once came to her with an undaunted heart and laid his feelings bare in such a passionate manner that she was offended by the intensity of his words. But she could not ask him to speak of love to her now. Margaret shuttered at the thought. It was too confusing- she was too confused- and she did not want to hurt him, or worse, have him directly say he no longer loved her and was disappointed by the prospect of having to marry her.

Margaret was reluctant to answer her own questions. She closed her eyes and wished for understanding or sleep, whichever would come first to still her thundering heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me, or is it getting warm in here?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early because I really could not wait to share! Thank you to 3tuxedocats for the feedback and encouragement on drafts of this chapter. Many thanks to everyone who is continuing to read. I am having a great time reading and responding to your comments. Just chapter 7 and an epilogue left!

* * *

The moonlight illuminated her face when she asked him to sit with her. And when her hand touched his, he acquiesced without thought.

He needed to get her out of this room, out of Marlborough Mills, out of his mind. Her laughter, the feel of her hand in his, her warmth emboldened him. The more she softened to him, the more he longed for her. A second longer and he would have thrown caution to the wind and kissed her. She was now clearly distressed, and he assumed it was because of his behavior and the growing inevitability that they would be discovered and forced to marry. Or maybe it was not that, exactly.

He had been wrong about her feelings before, but he could not help but wonder…hope…that she did not think as poorly of him as she had for most of their acquaintance. If he was not mistaken now, she had seemed receptive to him a minute ago. Regardless, an almost kiss was hardly love, and he could not marry her if she did not want to marry him. And the mill…the possibility of the mill failing loomed in his mind. Should he marry her, when he was not even sure of the quality of life he could provide for her and their children?

The last time he had spoken directly of his feelings for her, it had all gone wrong. He had offended her. But John needed to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. He wanted to speak her name aloud, for she had been Margaret in his mind for many months now. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but that she was not obliged to him in anyway if she did not want him, his own reputation be damned. But what did _she_ want? John swallowed, trying to find the words to put to his clashing feelings of protecting her from him and wanting her for himself forever.

John was hit with a familiar pang of jealous heartache. She was not his now, never was, and still might never be. Now that he knew who Frederick was, his thoughts went to Henry Lennox. Suddenly, a question he had wondered for some time came out without being able to stop it.

“Miss Hale?” he said. She shifted her head to look towards him, but he could not see her well.

“Hmm?” she murmured.

“Was Henry Lennox the other gentleman who asked…” John could not finish the question, from shame at admitting his jealousy at the mere thought of Henry Lennox approaching her in such a manner. 

“Henry? Was Henry what?” Margaret asked, confused. “Oh!” she said suddenly in understanding. She shifted uncomfortably, though it caused her shoulder to lean further into his.

“It was an impertinent question to ask, Miss Hale forgive me--” John said, wondering why he was always compelled to express every thought that crossed his mind. He was an open book to her, whether she wanted to read him or not. 

“Yes, it was Henry,” she responded after a moment of silence. “He misunderstood the meaning of a passing comment I made about my idea of the perfect wedding day. It was mortifying,” she explained. “That may be unfair to Henry, but he is like a brother to me, especially with Frederick being away. I have never considered him in that way, and to be perfectly honestly, I do not think _he_ truly felt anything for me. It was more the idea that appealed to him. Oh, I should not even have told you all this,” she said, bringing her hands to her face in embarrassment at the memory. “Poor Henry.”

“Poor Henry,” John agreed.

“Hush. Do not mock him, Mr. Thornton,” Margaret chastised.

“I have great sympathy for him, believe me,” John responded, secretly satisfied with himself for accurately deducing Henry Lennox’s intentions and pleased to hear Margaret so unequivocally denounce him. He knew from Mr. Bell that Lennox was a successful lawyer, quickly rising in prestige and fortune. Though, in John’s opinion, far too soft for fiery Margaret, Lennox would at least be able to provide for her.

The state of the mill came again to the forefront of his thoughts. She deserved to know the truth and make her decisions with her eyes open.

“Miss Hale, I must be honest with you. My only regret with the situation we find ourselves in is that I am no longer sure I can provide the comfortable life you are used to.”

“Is the mill doing so poorly?”

“Yes. I have a large loan from the bank, and every day it is looking like I will not have enough to continue running the mill while repaying my creditors. I do not know how long I can keep the mill open.”

Margaret was quiet as she contemplated his words. She brushed a wisp of hair from the left of her face, grazing her temple, and when her hand came down to her side again, it landed near his on the ground.

“Miss Thornton told me about the speculation. I was surprised to hear you would take the risk,” Margaret said, tilting her head as she looked at him.

“I do not plan to,” John said. It was easy to speak to Margaret about the mill, about anything really, and he found himself eager to share his thoughts. “I cannot justify investing in the scheme when I have workers to _pay_ and creditors to _repay_. If it fails, I lose money that rightfully should have gone towards them, not some foolish scheme.”

“And if it succeeds?”

“It would bring me out of this difficult situation. I would have enough to repay the creditors, buy more product, maybe expand the mill.”

“Or pay the workers more?” she offered. John smiled warmly at her.

“Perhaps. I wish I had my ledgers to show you. If I bought more product and was able to sell it, I would need to expand by hiring more workers to meet the demand…”

“But?” Margaret interjected, sensing a ‘but.’

“ _But_ I could not pay them all more than I do now.”

“Paying more than the other mills would attract better workers, would it not?” Margaret asked.

“Yes. The kitchen does that too, though, and costs me nothing but a building. The other mill owners are not happy about that kitchen. Either way, I am in a precarious situation. If the speculation fails, I would do harm to my creditors and workers. I cannot justify the risk. Right now, I still have a fighting chance of saving the mill even without the speculation.”

“I understand,” Margaret said pensively.

“You do not think it overly cautious?” John asked tentatively. She considered his question for some moments before responding.

“It is noble that you would act in accordance with your conscience in this matter, Mr. Thornton, especially under pressure from others. It sounds as though you have weighed the risks carefully. And I do not think you can be overly cautious when so many livelihoods depend on you,” Margaret said carefully.

John was awed, and not because she agreed with him, but because she had considered and understood his reasoning better than many others he’d spoken with. She understood _him_. He could see more of her face now, the moonlight having shifted just right. She no longer looked distressed, simply pensive. She did not shy from his gaze.

“Mr. Thornton, may I speak candidly?” Margaret asked. John smiled at her.

“Of course,” he said, resisting the urge to point out that she never needed his permission before.

“You presume to know what comforts I am accustomed to. I am but a parson’s daughter. I do what I can with what I have, and I do not shy from work. I help Dixon since we cannot afford to keep another servant. I iron, and mend, and attempt to bake,” Margaret tried to reassure. “Material gain has never been my motivation in this decision—”

“I am aware,” John said, a tinge of indignation in his voice. She made that perfectly clear to him before.

“I do not want it to be a business proposition or something you or I or anyone feels obligated to do. Not then and not now. There are other, more important considerations—”

John’s ire swelled, and he expelled a breath he had been holding. She had spoken of the future, as if she intended to accept him, and yet she continually mischaracterized his intentions.

“Miss Hale, I have always hoped, perhaps in vain, that my marriage would be the one thing in my life that was not business, though you insist on misunderstanding me on that point. What have I done or said to merit such accusations? I am only speaking of practical things because you deserve to know the full reality of my situation to make an informed decision,” he said, more severely than he intended.

Margaret narrowed her eyes at him, and she looked cross before she schooled her face into a more neutral expression. She reflected on his question. It was true, in manners, he was always gentlemanly towards her. He never spoke of the material advantage of his offer. In the heated moment of his proposal, she said the worse thing she could think to say to him. She spoke from her prejudice, not her heart. Had he not shown her his true character? Did she not see the compassion he showed towards her mother, Nicholas, and his workers? _We masters are not all the same_. No, indeed, they were not, and beyond that, he was a good man. Kind, considerate, responsible. Margaret felt a now familiar rush of warmth towards him. Her face softened, and she touched his hand gently in apology.

“Mr. Thornton, forgive me. I was unfair to you. It is just when you speak about my comfort, it makes me think you believe me delicate and arrogant.”

“I think no such thing,” John cut in. That _was_ his first impression of her, but as is often the case with first impressions, it was an inaccurate picture of her character.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Margaret said, her eyes falling to their now touching hands. She wondered what he was feeling. Did he feel as warmly towards her as she did towards him? She grew nervous, and suddenly stood up and moved to the center of the room, facing away from him. He remained confused, unsure of what upset her.

“Mr. Thornton, do you truly _only_ regret this situation because you are worried about the mill? It is my understanding you no longer desired such a connection to me. I do not wish to be the cause of a lifetime of disappointment for you…” Margaret’s words came out haltingly, and her speech trailed off as she spoke into the darkness.

John stood up, spurred by a rush of irritation. She thought him so fickle. The idea that he would have moved on, after not half a year since her rejection, was an insult to his feelings. He softened as he recalled that she had no choice but to think that based on his own words and behavior towards her as of late. John sighed.

“Miss Hale?” he asked quietly, stepping forward to close the space between them. He was near enough to touch her. When she did not turn, he wondered at her shyness. Why was she not looking at him? Margaret, who would defend him against a mob, who he never once saw retreat in the face of opposition, seemed suddenly hesitant, afraid, and in need of reassurance.

John recognized in her how he felt in the aftermath of the riot. He was so unsure then, so afraid of her disdain, and in desperate need of her reassurance. When he stood in her parlor and declared himself to her, it was the most afraid he had ever been in his life. He felt his heart beat quicken as he wondered if _that_ all-encompassing, wild, feeling was the one thing that Margaret Hale would shrink from.

He could only see the shadowy profile of her figure as her head turned sideways towards him, “Well? Do you not regret the loss of your choice? Choice of a wife, I mean. Surely, you have other prospects…” 

“Other prospects?” he choked out, shaking his head in disbelief. “Miss Hale, I have suffered. I have been angry at you and bitter about what I misunderstood. But I _never_ wavered in my love for _you_ —"

“But you said—” Margaret interjected.

John shook his head again, and his fingers fidgeted, desperate to reach out to her. He clenched his fists at his side instead.

“I know what I said. I was trying to convince you, and myself, that any affection I held for you was gone, but it was a fool’s errand. Margaret, look at me,” he pleaded, and reached for her arm to turn her towards him but hesitated, unsure if his touch would be welcome. To his relief, she turned to face him on her own accord, her arms crossed protectively in front of herself. He could only just make out her face and her wet eyes glistening in the moonlight as she looked up at him. He continued,

“You speak of choice, as if I had not made _my_ choice long ago. For me, it is you or no one. I choose _you_ freely now, as I did then. I will choose _you_ every day if you let me. Send me away again if you must, but you will not stop me from choosing you in my heart _still_ ,” he slowly raised one hand to caress her face, his fingers lightly running across her temple, and he wondered if she had a scar. His thumb tenderly wiped the edge of her eye where tears were pooling as he cupped her cheek in his hand. She relaxed into his touch.

“Why are you crying?” John asked gently.

“I thought I lost your good opinion,” Margaret said quietly.

“Forgive me—”

“Please allow me to finish. I do not fault you. For months, I have not understood why I worried and fretted over what you thought of me,” she continued. “I think so highly of you, Mr. Thornton. I have wished for your renewed friendship, at least, and to think that after everything that has passed between us, everything I have said and done, you still…that you might still…” Margaret paused, hesitant and unsure. “I am crying because I am overwhelmed…I have never felt this way before. I have never spoken of it. It _is_ difficult to find the words,” she said and let out a small laugh. John stared at her in wonder. 

“Take care, Margaret. You are giving me hope,” John whispered. He caressed her cheekbone softly with his thumb before bringing his other hand to cup her face in his palms. Their bodies seemed to have gravitated to one another as Margaret spoke, and she was now pressed against him.

“Margaret, I love you. Are you saying you could learn to love me?” John spoke as gently yet resolutely as he could so there was no question in her mind of his devotion. He kept the desperation from his voice, knowing her answer would seal his fate. He would accept whatever she said. If she could not find it in her heart to ever love him, then he would leave her be. He would continue to love without hope of return, and he would be a better man for having loved her.

“Oh, Mr. Thornton—” Margaret whispered, her eyes searching his, trying to draw on the strength she always found there. She took a deep breath and in the silence that filled the room listened to every part of her body, mind, and spirit that called out for John Thornton, and had, for some time. “Yes, I can. I already do.”

And there it was. The answer to the prayer he held in his heart every time he spoke her name. He lowered his forehead to hers, his eyes locked intently on hers. His thumb ran gingerly over her cheek before lightly caressing her bottom lip, causing a tingling sensation to snake down Margaret’s neck. She waited, her heart beating loudly in her ears in anticipation.

“Margaret…May I kiss you?” John murmured tenderly.

She nodded once, then twice.

“I need to hear you say it, Margaret,” he pleaded. John needed certainty that he was not overstepping, and he wanted to hear her invite him to the paradise that he once thought closed to him.

“Yes. Kiss me, Mr. Thornton—”

His name was hardly out of her mouth before his lips were on hers. The feeling was foreign to them both. Margaret was surprised by his gentleness. And yet she knew it was precisely like him to treat her with care, as he did all things he loved. She reached for him, her hands gripping his vest to pull him closer. _Closer_ was all she could think, and she pressed herself against him as his lips met hers again and again. Her brain fogged with euphoria. Margaret stood on her toes to give herself more height, as he was inclining his head a great deal to reach her. He tasted of citrus and wine and his own unique flavor.

John varied the kiss, moving carefully, slowly. Her face was radiating heat onto his trembling hands, and despite his nerves, he savored every inch of her mouth, the taste and feel of her. She loved him, and she was kissing him. Together, they found a rhythm. She mirrored his movements, and when his lips parted more, so did hers, and John’s heart tighten with desire. He felt as though she was cleansing him of his deep feeling of unworthiness, his loneliness, the rigidity, and self-denial he lived with for so long.

His hands moved from her face down to her shoulders, holding her tightly. A kind of muscle memory was ignited within her, and Margaret threw her hands around his neck, stepping forward. The force of her enthusiasm caught him by surprise, and he was pushed backwards. John landed against the wall with a thud, their lips still locked in a kiss, and he thought he would be undone then and there. He had longed to feel her clinging to him like this again. He smiled into her kiss, drunk from the feel of her arms on his neck, her fingers grazing his hair, the pressure of her embrace. If it was entirely up to John, he would kiss her just like this for the rest of this life _and_ the next.

“Margaret—” he panted out. He was raw, his breathing heavy with barely contained ardor. He hands fell lower to her waist, and a delightful sound escaped from Margaret when he pulled her closer, and their kiss became more fervent.

“John—”

John always thought he knew how she would love. Yet he never dared to hope that she would respond to him in such a way, that her instinct would be to lead, to challenge, to match his gentle fervor with her own, but then was that not how she always was with him? He savored the opportunity to yield to her, here, in the shelter of her embrace, where he was John and she was Margaret, and they were each other’s.

Margaret’s breathing was heavy, and she thought her heart was going to beat right out of her chest. Every part of her skin tingled. John moved from her lips to plant slower, tender kisses on her face and then, cautiously, towards her neck, and she intuitively tilted her head to allow him easier access. It felt glorious, and the thrill that ran down her was sinful enough to prompt her sense of propriety.

“John,” she breathed out, her eyes opening to the dark room. He sensed her sudden hesitation and stopped, and in the semi-darkness, she could make out the worry in his eyes. She kissed him, once, on the lips, to reassure him, and he touched his forehead to hers, his eyes half-closing as they both caught their breath. It was then that she realized she had pinned him against the wall. When had she done that? And how fervently had she been returning his kiss? Margaret felt her already hot face grow hotter, this time with shame.

“John—Mr. Thornton, forgive me if I have caused offense,” she began, but he shook his head against hers.

“You never need to apologize to me for being expressive, Margaret,” John replied, in a velvet voice that made her heart flip. 

“Truly? You do not think me too bold?” Margaret asked shyly.

“Yes,” John responded with a smile, “But that is one of the qualities I love about you,” He unwrapped one of her arms from around his neck, planting a small kiss on her wrist before holding her hand to his lips.

“I must ask you the question I have never properly asked,” John began ardently. She gazed at him fondly, waiting.

“Margaret Hale, will you marry—”

He was unable to finish, as they were both distracted by the sound of the old, rusty doorknob roughly turning. The door to the storage room opened widely.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers! The final chapter of our story. I will post the epilogue, featuring a Christmas (or two?) in the future next week.

* * *

Hannah Thornton’s patience with the festive atmosphere at Watson’s Christmas celebration ran out sometime between the second round of carols and the decorating of the tree. Even though Fanny was delighted with a “fashionable Christmas,” Mrs. Thornton could not bring herself to share in the merriment. She regretted leaving John alone. Though his work ethic was a source of pride for her, she worried that he was now overworking himself to save the mill, and worst of all, indulging in self-pity ever since _that_ woman had rejected him. He insisted she accompany Fanny this evening, and Mrs. Thornton agreed, but now she worried she made the wrong decision.

Mrs. Thornton was not a sentimental woman. She marked the anniversary of her husband’s death privately with solemn prayer and reflection. She had loved him fiercely, and it took her many years to forgive him, and in those years, she did not speak about her husband to her children. For a long time, she was angry on John’s behalf and devastated that the weight of the family fell onto his young shoulders. A lesser man would not have been able to do it. But John was not any man. He raised himself out from the shadow of his father’s shame to become the most respected man in Milton. And Mrs. Thornton had left him alone on this Christmas evening. She knew he would spend it at the mill in one of his moods, working too late, or thinking about his father, or pining after Miss Hale, or some awful combination of all three.

As it neared ten, she insisted to Fanny that it was time to leave, and they rode their carriage home. The house and mill were dark, and the only sound in the house was Fanny’s excited commentary about the evening. John was not waiting for them. He usually stayed up to ensure they arrived home safely, but she also knew the long hours he was working recently and understood his need to retire early. It was good he was sleeping, and she did not begrudge him his rest. So Mrs. Thornton bid Fanny goodnight and readied herself for bed.

Mrs. Thornton laid in her bed and attempted to sleep. The clock in the hall ticked loudly. Something was not sitting right with her. She got up and put on a robe before venturing to John’s room down the hall. She knocked.

No answer.

She knocked more loudly.

“John?” she called.

When he still did not answer, she turned the doorknob and peered in. An empty room with an undisturbed bed greeted her.

She searched the remainder of the house and looked out the window to the mill office. It was dark, but perhaps he had fallen asleep at his desk as he often did. Mrs. Thornton dressed enough to walk across the snowy courtyard to the mill office, her keyring in hand. But he was not there, though his coat and hat were. Confused and alarmed, she returned to the house and went rapidly upstairs to Fanny’s room.

“Fanny,” Mrs. Thornton whispered loudly. Fanny, who was already dreaming of her future Christmases as Mrs. Watson, rolled over.

“Fanny, wake up,” Mrs. Thornton repeated loudly.

“Who’s there?” Fanny woke with a gasp, startled.

“Fanny, be calm,” Mrs. Thornton responded, annoyed.

“I thought you were a ghost!” Fanny said, clearly relieved she was not being haunted.

“Your brother is not home.”

“And? Mother, I am sleeping.” Fanny said, pulling the covers over her head.

“Did he mention to you what he was doing this evening?”

“What he does every evening. Work,” Fanny responded. She flipped the covers off her head with a flourish and sat up, eager for the opportunity to air her grievances against John, “He is such a Scrooge. When I told him we should have a tree this year, do you know what he said? He said he was not interested in spending money on a tree just to watch it slowly die in the parlor!”

“Fanny, your brother is missing. He was not in the office,” Mrs. Thornton said, ignoring her.

“John is not missing,” Fanny replied as she laid back down and pulled the covers over her head once more. “He is surely in the old storage room. He and I used to go there on Christmas so he could tell me about papa without you hearing. He still goes, though he no longer invites me.” 

Mrs. Thornton stared at the bundle of blankets that was her daughter. She heard Fanny sigh, so touched Fanny’s shoulder gently. 

“I forgot all about that. I will go check there,” Mrs. Thornton said softly.

She left Fanny’s room and made her way out of the house and towards the mill, lamp in hand. She knew very little about the secret world John and Fanny created between themselves when they were younger. It was a pity, though perhaps inevitable, that they grew so far apart since John’s adulthood. Once, when Fanny was a child, Fanny had excitedly revealed that John had shown her his secret storage room with their father’s drawings. Mrs. Thornton had done her best, but she did regret how little she spoke about their father to Fanny and John. How could she when her own grief had been so overwhelming for so long?

She was lost in her own thoughts as she reached the room. When she tried to open the door, it did not budge. Annoyed, she took out her key ring and found the correct key. It took her multiple tries, but she successfully managed to unlock it and turn the reluctant doorknob.

When Mrs. Thornton opened the door to the old storage room, to say she was surprised would be an understatement. Her son certainly was in this room, but to her astonishment and immediate dismay, so was Margaret Hale.

The brightness of the gas lamp caused Margaret and John to squint their eyes as Margaret moved to disentangle herself from what was clearly an amorous embrace.

“John?” Mrs. Thornton said, unable to articulate much more in her shock.

“Mother. I am glad you are here. The door was stuck,” John explained, and to Mrs. Thornton’s annoyance, he sounded completely unconcerned, as if it was an everyday occurrence to be discovered embracing Margaret Hale in a dark room.

“Mrs. Thornton,” Margaret greeted with a ridiculous proper bow of her head.

Margaret put her hat back on, and grabbed the basket, returning all their provisions to it with alacrity. The sooner she was out from Mrs. Thornton’s murderous glare, the better. John stepped forward to ensure the door remained open as Margaret exited the room.

“John. An explanation,” Mrs. Thornton said, unable to look at Margaret, though Margaret rushed to explain for herself.

“I was bringing a Christmas basket—”

“Miss Hale brought a basket—”

“And I found no one home, so I came to the mill—”

“I was in here, and when Miss Hale came in the door shut unexpectedly behind her—”

“The key broke, and we could not open it despite many attempts—”

“The lock has been troublesome for years, but it has never—”

“Enough.” Mrs. Thornton said, her hand going up to silence their babble. “Do you have any idea what time it is? Miss Hale, your father must be sick with worry! You will return home at once. The sooner you are away from this mill, the better.”

“Mother—” John said firmly.

“No, John. She has put you in this position before, then changed her mind, and now here we are again with a second attempt at trapping you. I will not have her toying with you in this manner,” Mrs. Thornton said, her voice echoing in the empty mill. Margaret paused before she nodded in understanding.

“Mrs. Thornton, I know how it must appear to you. But if you knew me at all, you would know I have never and would never try to compromise your son,” Margaret said evenly. John’s heart fluttered with pride at her nerve. 

“One minute you turn your nose up at him and the next you think he is good enough. When will your games end, Miss Hale?” Mrs. Thornton said, her voice dripping with derision as she finally looked at Margaret.

“Mother—” John cut in again, but Margaret smiled and responded first.

“Mrs. Thornton, I never planned for any of this to happen, but I am certainly glad it did. All I can say to you is I know my own heart better now. If your son considers _me_ good enough for _him_ , I would be quite happy indeed.”

Mrs. Thornton had no response to that.

“Mother, I have much to explain to you, but first I must escort Miss Hale home,” John said.

“John,” Mrs. Thornton objected. “There is no need. If you insist on an escort, I will go with her—”

“You should be inside where it is warm. I will return as fast as I can, mother,” John said, cutting her off. He made sure the door remained open and kissed Mrs. Thornton’s cheek. This softened her, but she still sighed in exasperation. Margaret awkwardly handed Mrs. Thornton the basket, which she took without comment or eye contact. Battle Axe Thornton, indeed.

John walked quickly through the mill with Margaret directly behind him and neither spoke until they were outside.

The fresh night air on her face felt like heaven to Margaret. A sense of relief washed over her, and she smiled to herself, holding out her palm to catch one of the snowflakes that trickled down from the sky. John watched her. She stopped when she sensed his gaze and grew serious.

“Mr. Thornton, I can walk home alone. You should stay and speak to your mother,” Margaret said. 

“Nonsense. It is too late for you to walk alone. I will get my coat. Wait here,” John said. The last came out more like an order than a request, and Margaret raised her eyebrows at him. “Please,” he added, smiling warmly at her. Margaret nodded and hoped Mrs. Thornton did not come out of the mill in his absence.

John knew Christmas was a time for miracles, but this was too much for him to believe. The evening was blurring in his mind like a fever dream, so as he ran to his office to retrieve his coat, he inventoried all the things he learned over the course of the night. Margaret Hale uses dozens of pins in her hair. Margaret Hale has a brother. Margaret Hale likes oranges. Margaret Hale makes awful holiday cookies. Margaret Hale knows he likes chestnuts. Margaret Hale, who never does anything by halves, kisses like she needs it to live. 

At the last thought, John grinned to himself. He had never considered himself lucky. It was determination and perseverance that led to all good things in his life so far. But _this_ turn of events was entirely fortune smiling upon him. If Margaret had not visited, if she had not searched for him, if the door had not shut…For the first time in his life, he felt like the luckiest man in the world.

He put his gloves and hat on and headed back out while still shoving his arms into the sleeves of his coat, impatient to return to her side. Margaret was looking in the opposite direction, and when she heard the crunch of snow from his footsteps, she turned. Her face brightened immediately with the warmth from her smile, and John’s heart flipped. Margaret Hale had never looked at him with such fondness. He watched as her cheeks started to color under his gaze, and he felt a sense of satisfaction from eliciting such a response. He was about to kiss her when he remembered his mother would surely come upon them again. Instead, he extended his arm to Margaret, and she took it. This was another first for them.

Margaret had grown to be quite the walker in her time in Milton, so she kept up easily with his strides. The snow crunched under their feet and slowed their progress, but she did not mind. The streets were empty at this late hour and most homes were dark, though a few still had a solitary candle lit in their window. Fresh garlands and tinsel hung in the windows of the shops they passed, and there were festive ribbons affixed to the streetlamps.

The road looked more pristine than usual, shining in the moonlight with fresh snow. In a few hours, the streets would be busy, and the white snow would turn to grey slush under the rush of carriages and people. Perfect things did not last. Margaret was suddenly apprehensive.

“Your mother is not happy,” Margaret said, glancing up at him from beneath her hat.

“It is the shock. I will speak with her,” John said.

“I would like her blessing, Mr. Thornton. The two of you are so close, and I know she does not care for me very much,” Margaret said.

“She will be supportive, I am sure of it,” John reassured. “Do not worry,” he smiled down at her as they walked. “So, am I Mr. Thornton again? If you say you will only address me as John in that storage room, I am afraid we will need to return,” he teased. 

Margaret shook her head at him in response, “You must promise to fix the lock first,” she responded with a smile.

John stopped in the middle of the snowy street and took both her hands in his.

“John,” she said quietly, her eyes looking at their entwined hands before meeting his.

He smiled at the sound of his name and admired the sight of her flushed cheeks and brightened eyes. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Would she really have him? His smile faltered for a moment as doubt crept in.

“Margaret, you can still change your mind,” John said quickly. “About us. About this. I hold you to no obligation. Not even after everything that has passed between us.”

It was a lifetime of insecurities, everything from his own self-worth being tied to the failing mill and the bruise of her own previous scorn, that ate at him, even now, when he stood beside her in the middle of a Milton street, having gained her heart and hand all in one evening. He could hardly believe it to be true. He had made this very walk, alone, countless times since the Hales arrived in Milton, in the cold, and the rain, in the heat of summer, and each time he was content that every step brought him closer to her, even when they were nothing more than antagonistic friends, even after she had wounded him. But the walk was so much better with her at his side, and he wanted her near him, always.

“Will you truly marry me, Margaret, even though I will, quite likely, no longer be master of Marlborough Mills?”

Margaret gazed up at him and marveled at the strength of the affection that swelled within her. Once Margaret loved, she loved fiercely. She considered Mr. Thornton the strongest, most respectable man of her acquaintance, and now he stood before her a man needing the reassurance only she could provide. She would convince him of her devotion to him, and how much he was deserving of it, even if it took her a lifetime.

“I choose you, John Thornton. Mill or no mill. Yes. Yes, I will marry you,” she said firmly. She squeezed his hands tightly, and he smiled at her and kissed her hand. John thought they both smiled too little in general and much more together.

“You have made me the happiest of men.”

“I am glad of it,” Margaret replied earnestly.

John took off his hat to lower his face more easily to hers. Margaret’s heart skipped a beat as he drew close, and she tightened her grip on his hand in encouragement. On this second time around, Margaret noticed how his nose grazed her cheek softly just before their lips met. She noticed how he seemed incapable of kissing her only once—instead, he kissed in abundance. It was lingering, even slower than the one earlier, deeper, one kiss blending into the next, and Margaret ached with delightful longing. It occurred to her that there were innumerable ways they could kiss, and innumerable ways he could make her feel, and this thought thrilled her.

John, encouraged by the understanding they reached, kissed her with more confidence than before. The rest of the world melted around them, and all he knew was her. He had always been keenly aware of everything about her when she was in his presence; the way she moved through a room or served tea or when she spoke to someone else. This awareness was magnified in her embrace. There was not a sound of hers he did not hear, nor a movement of her mouth that he did not feel deep within him. Their kiss naturally escalated in intensity, from soft to ardent, and he could feel the thunder of his heartbeat increase. Instead of alleviating the tension between them, their kiss only served to heightened it.

Margaret’s soft eyes opened to look at him. Sensing her gaze, John pulled away.

“John,” she whispered.

“Yes?” he murmured.

“You were right.”

“What about?” he asked, bemused. Margaret reached into the pocket of her dress and returned the pocket watch into his gloved hand.

“We _can_ go half-an-hour without quarrelling,” she said, a bright smile appearing on her face. John smiled at her indulgently.

“We have found a better use of our time together, my dearest Margaret,” John said. Though John was certain there would be disagreement and debate aplenty in their future, he certainly enjoyed the new way they could occupy their time. And as she looked up at him, he marveled at her loveliness and wondered again at his luck. He kissed her once more.

If anyone happened to look out their window or come upon them in the street, it would be unmistakable: John Thornton, master of Marlborough Mills, and Margaret Hale, the remarkably handsome lady from the south, were brazenly sharing a kiss in the middle of a Milton street. It would not come as a surprise to any onlooker, as many had noticed Mr. Thornton’s attachment to the fiery Miss Hale, who, despite her airs, showed a marked preference and respect for him.

So when Nicholas Higgins turned the corner and approached the two figures in the street, he was more amused than surprised. When the young couple did not seem to have a mind to stop their activity, Higgins decided it best to interrupt.

“Miss Margaret!” he called out. If he was amused before, the startled way in which Thornton and Miss Margaret broke apart and looked like they were caught eating sweets before dinner was downright comical. Thornton almost dropped his hat as he attempted to return it to his head.

“Nicholas!” Margaret greeted, cheerful but embarrassed.

“I just came from your place. We been looking for you everywhere, lass. Are you all right?” he asked, eyeing John suspiciously. John was in too good a humor to be annoyed with the look Higgins was currently giving him.

“I am well, Nicholas. You see, after I left your home, I went to Marlborough Mills,” Margaret began.

“Ay, that’s what I told Dixon when she came looking for you. I went to Thornton’s, but the whole place was empty, far as I could tell.”

“Allow me to explain,” Margaret said, and she relayed to him how they had been stuck in the storage room all evening, attempting to make the incident sound as dull as possible, though Margaret could feel her cheeks warm with embarrassment at the truth. Higgins looked concerned.

“I am thankful Mrs. Thornton found us when she did. Is my father doing all right?” Margaret finished.

“He is worried, but he is fine. Knows you can take care of yourself. Now, Miss Margaret, we can explain the situation to Mr. Hale, and if Thornton didn’t cross too many lines…”

“Higgins,” John said warningly, annoyed at the implication.

Margaret shook her head at them both. “Oh, no, of course Mr. Thornton was a gentleman. You are the first to share in our happy news, Nicholas. He asked for my hand, and this time I accepted,” Margaret said, beaming.

Higgins looked to Thornton for confirmation. That’s when he noticed Thornton looked…happy. Quite pleased, actually. There was a relaxed smile on Thornton’s face that Higgins was certain he’d never seen before. Higgins always suspected there was something brewing between the two. Thornton was the only man in Milton Higgins would trust to treat Miss Margaret as she ought to be treated, and Miss Margaret could soften Thornton up a bit more. Yes, he approved a great deal.

“I told Mr. Hale; Thornton would know where you ran off to. But Hale didn’t think you would have said anything to Thornton. Said you don’t get along well enough for that. Seems he got that wrong,” Higgins said, looking rather amused. “Congratulations then, Thornton, Miss Margaret.”

“I need to accompany Miss Hale home, Higgins,” John said, tipping his hat to him.

“I am so sorry for all the trouble,” Margaret said to Higgins as she extended her hand to him. Higgins clasped her hand in return.

“No trouble at all, miss. Merry Christmas,” Higgins responded. He made a mental note to ask Margaret what she meant when she said she accepted Thornton “this time.” There was certainly a good story there.

“Merry Christmas,” John and Margaret responded in unison. Higgins headed in the opposite direction towards the Princeton district, and John and Margaret continued down the street to the Hale residence, which was just on the next street down. John offered Margaret his arm again, which she gladly took.

“How fortunate for us to find a friend to share our news with,” Margaret said, smiling and attempting to diffuse John’s irritation, though she suspected he was mostly annoyed they had been interrupted. John still considered Higgins his worker more than anything else, though they had formed a tentative friendship in the last couple of months. Margaret’s friendship with the workers would require some adjustment for John.

“There are certainly worse people to run into, who maybe would not share in our joy as much as Higgins,” John agreed.

“Like who?” Margaret asked, curious. To her, it seemed like all the world would celebrate their union. Well, save Mrs. Thornton.

“Bell, Dixon, Miss Latimer, Henderson, Henry Lennox, to name a few.”

“Oh, you are being unfair. Of course they will wish us well. Besides, what would any of them be doing out walking in Milton at this hour?” Margaret said laughing at his lengthy list of people.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. What are _you_ doing out walking in Milton at this hour?” John responded with a smile.

“Going on a stroll with a handsome gentleman. It is one of my favorite activities, as you and all of Milton know,” Margaret teased.

“That reminds me. Since I am in no danger of misunderstanding you, I would like to know. What _is_ your idea of a perfect wedding day?” John asked, recalling their conversation from earlier. He had never given the matter much thought until he met her, and even then, his thoughts were never about the ceremony. Margaret sighed wistfully at his question.

“I used to think I simply wanted to put on my best dress and walk to church on a sunny day.”

“And now?” he asked, simultaneously charmed by her modest wishes and a little apprehensive that she now envisioned a grand event.

“Well now, being winter in the north, I would not mind if it is a cloudy day,” she said with a wry smile. John laughed.

When they turned onto her street, she could see a light on in the window to her home. She inhaled deeply in anticipation.

“They must be worried sick,” she said ruefully.

“I will come in with you.”

“No, I think I should go by myself. I will explain what happened. Father will understand.” They had reached the steps of the apartment. She let go of John’s arm to walk up the steps, but he grabbed her hand to stop her.

“I feel that I miss you already,” John said, desperate to keep her at his side longer.

“You will come tomorrow...later, I mean, to speak to my father?” Margaret asked.

“First thing. I promise,” he replied, bringing her hand to his lips, where he placed a reverent kiss,

“Do you think your father will approve?” John asked.

“John, he thinks of you as a second son. He will be delighted,” Margaret paused, and then after a moment, “Well, once he is over his surprise, he will be delighted, I am sure. I _will_ have to explain my own change of heart,” she said thoughtfully, now regretful of the strong words she used early in their acquaintance.

“No one can be more surprised than I am,” John responded. He was still holding onto her hand.

“You really must go,” she said, looking to the door of the apartment. “I need to face Dixon who is likely on the other side of that door waiting for an explanation.”

“I will go, but I will be back in a few hours,” John released her hand, “Though I fear that if I fall asleep, I will wake up, and it will all be a dream.”

Margaret laughed, “This is not a dream. Now go,” she said, shooing him away with her hand. John smiled at her and started on his path home. She watched him closely, and just as he was about to turn the corner, she leaned over the railing of the stairs.

“Mr. Thornton—” she called after him in a loud whisper. John turned swiftly, as if he had been waiting for her to beckon him back.

“I love you,” Margaret said, smiling broadly at him, not caring if all of Milton heard her, “Merry Christmas!”

“And I love you, Miss Hale,” John called back.

He waited and watched as she opened the door to the apartment. She looked back at him, smiling, and then disappeared inside.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered faintly into the night air.

~THE END~


	8. Epilogue

Margaret looked out the parlor window with her arms crossed and concern on her face. The snowfall had increased in speed and quantity over the evening with no sign of letting up and now obscured her view of the mill yard. Milton was seeing a bad winter, and for the last two days, travel in and out of the city by train or carriage had been difficult. Though it took several years, Margaret was now acclimated to Northern winters, as harsh as they were, and she usually enjoyed late evenings watching and listening to the snow fall against the windows while she curled up with a book in the study. Nevertheless, she found herself resenting the snow this evening for the trouble it was causing. 

John was supposed to return from a business trip to Havre on Christmas Eve, but the trains were delayed. Now Christmas day was nearing an end, and Margaret was worried it would be the first Christmas they will have spent apart in several years after their evening locked in the storage room at the mill. Margaret’s thoughts turned to the past, and she reflected on the blessings and the difficulties that had marked John and Margaret’s marriage.

Despite the unusual circumstances that helped the young lovers reach an understanding, Mr. Hale gave his whole-hearted consent to the match. A date was set, and Mr. Hale seemed newly invigorated by the impending nuptials between his daughter and favorite pupil. It brought joy and a semblance of normalcy to their lives that was missing since Mrs. Hale’s death. Margaret Hale became Mrs. John Thornton on a grey day in early spring, and they enjoyed a month of newlywed bliss before Mr. Hale passed unexpectedly. She often wondered how much worse the loss of her father would have been if she had to bear it alone, without John’s constant presence and his tender comfort which helped Margaret navigate the tides of grief that threatened to overwhelm her.

The death of Mr. Hale began a series of misfortunes for the Thorntons. The financial difficulties facing the mill became insurmountable, and Marlborough Mills closed. Mr. Bell generously offered to allow the Thorntons to remain at the mill house, but John’s pride would not allow the charity. They moved to a small apartment in Crampton, only a little larger than the one the Hales had occupied, and John found work as an overseer in a nearby town. The work was difficult and the hours long, keeping John away from his bride from early morning until the late evening.

Margaret kept herself busy. She made their new home as comfortable as possible. Margaret was resilient and economical, surprising Mrs. Thornton by running the household well on a modest income, and further raising her estimation of Margaret. Of course, there were days when Margaret was daunted by household tasks and concerned for John’s frustration in his new position. But through it all, Margaret found things in life to be grateful for: the roof over their heads, their health, the pleasure of evenings spent reading together, a satisfying meal, a letter from Frederick, John’s laughter. There was always a rose to be found in the hedgerows, even though some days she had to look hard.

Providence shone upon them when Margaret’s godfather, Mr. Bell, bequeathed her a small fortune and extensive property before leaving to spend the end of his life abroad, and Margaret insisted on it being used to reopen the mill. Any money of hers was legally John’s, but he still balked at the idea of being pulled out of this predicament by his wife. It led to the first true argument in their marriage, and the money sat unused for some time. Only when Margaret was with child did John’s pride allow him to reconsider, and they reached the compromise to treat the money as a loan that he would repay.

Marlborough Mills reopened. The Thorntons moved back into the mill house, though now Margaret was given leeway to brighten the somber furnishings and décor and prepare the house for the children that would soon fill it. In addition to reopening the mill kitchen, Margaret established a school for the worker’s children, and people flocked to return to work for John, the firm but fair master with a kind Southern wife. The mill thrived, Margaret and John’s family grew, and their love matured and strengthened with time. And each year, they spent Christmas together as a family, the season brightened by their fondness for the special time of year that brought them together.

Mrs. Thornton appeared in the reflection of the window, disrupting Margaret’s melancholy thoughts.

“He will be here,” Mrs. Thornton said with her characteristic certitude, and Margaret turned to face her.

“I hope so,” Margaret responded. Mrs. Thornton touched Margaret’s arm, and Margaret smiled softly, comforted by the rare gesture of affection.

Her attention was drawn to the raucous laughter that was filling the parlor. The Thornton brood now consisted of George, age six, Rose, age four, and Eleanor, age two. Rose was the source of the laughter as her Aunt Watson helped her pull a Christmas cracker. Eleanor was entertaining herself by pulling the ribbons she could reach off the tree. George tried to keep up with his cousins, Thomas and John Watson, while running in and out of the parlor as they pretended to be pirates. The Christmas dinner was over, the presents opened, bedtime loomed for the children, and still there was no sign of John. Their tree remained dark, as Margaret insisted on waiting for John to light the candles.

“Come, mother, Margaret,” Fanny called over to them. “Rosie wants one last carol before we take our leave, and it is getting late. You know my Watson rises early in the morning.”

Margaret smiled. Fanny doted on all the children, and she invited Rose to sit next to her on the piano bench to watch her play. Watson rounded up the boys, bringing them begrudgingly to the piano. Mrs. Thornton joined them, and Fanny sat at the ready, giving a wink to Margaret. Long ago they had established the pattern of entertaining guests with Fanny at the piano and Margaret accompanying her singing, as Margaret did not play well. Margaret picked up Eleanor and then took her usual spot at Fanny’s side.

Fanny struck the opening chords expressively and expertly, and the others accompanied her to varying degrees of ability.

 _Hark! The Herald Angels sing,  
_ _"Glory to the new-born King;  
_ _Peace on earth, and mercy mild,  
_ _God and sinners reconciled!"_  
 _Joyful, all ye nations, rise.  
_ _Join the triumph of the skies._

Thus, they proceeded through the song, the children becoming louder and less in tune as they went through the verses, and Margaret had to pay close attention to the pages to turn them fast enough for Fanny who was playing at a speedier tempo than the new arrangement called for. It was certainly impressive to watch. Finally, they sang the closing verse, and with a last flourish, Fanny finished. Rose and Eleanor applauded excitedly. Their applause was accompanied by the sound of much fiercer and louder applause. Surprised, Margaret turned to see John leaning against the parlor doorframe, a smile on his face, his cheeks and nose rosy from the cold.

Even after all these years, he still took her breath away.

“Papa!” yelled all three Thornton children at once. George was the first to arrive to him, and John knelt to embrace him. Rose reached him next, and he accommodated her into their hug, planting kisses on both of their foreheads and greeting them with his usual inquiries regarding their behavior and activities while he was away. Mrs. Thornton gave Margaret a satisfied look, pleased to have been correct that her son would not miss Christmas entirely, but Margaret was not paying attention to Mrs. Thornton. Instead, she walked towards John, with Eleanor reaching her arms out and trying to escape her mother to reach her father’s arms.

Fanny was delighted, “Oh, John! How long were you standing there? Did you hear how marvelous it was? We could collectively use a little practice singing though. I suppose there is always next year,” she shouted cheerfully.

Watson laughed good naturedly at Fanny, “Come now, Fanny, can’t you see the man’s busy,” he teased. Fanny smiled at Watson and swatted fondly at his arm.

John had in fact not been listening to a word Fanny said, and instead was letting go of the older children so he could take Eleanor into his arms before she cried. He kissed Margaret on the cheek as he did so, and he brought his lips close to her ear.

“I am sorry to be so late. I was delayed—” 

“Welcome home,” Margaret interrupted, smiling brightly at him.

“Papa, you missed Christmas!” Rose chided as she wrapped her tiny arms around his leg. John made a show of looking thoroughly chastised.

“I am sorry, darling, but I did see you there with your aunt at the piano. You sang very well,” John said.

“Come see my presents, Papa!” George said, pulling on John’s coat to take him to where his new toy soldiers and book were.

“Come now, children, let your father settle in,” Margaret said, though she was laughing and did nothing to help John disentangle himself. Despite the impediments created by George and Rose hanging onto him, John managed to reach his mother to greet her and the Watsons.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Mrs. Thornton greeted.

“Tree!” Eleanor began shouting, pointing to the tree at the corner of the room. At Eleanor’s reminder, all the children in the parlor started yelling, and George pulled his father towards the tree. The children had spent the day making paper ornaments and stringing popcorn garlands with the help of Mrs. Thornton and Margaret. Candles affixed on golden holders were scattered throughout the fir.

“You did not light it?” John asked, turning to Margaret. She smiled at him.

“Of course not. I wanted you to be here,” she replied, touching his arm. “We can wait until you are ready. Have you eaten?” Margaret said, looking at him in concern.

“I think they’ll never forgive me if I make them wait any longer,” John replied, eyeing the eager children at his legs. He smiled at Margaret before handing Eleanor to Mrs. Thornton. He found the matches that were kept on the mantle. John glanced at his mother, and Mrs. Thornton gathered all her grandchildren a safe distance away, while Fanny began extinguishing the lamps around the room. John lit one candle and Margaret joined him, holding her own.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” he responded, igniting her candle with his. John then began cautiously lighting candles towards the top of their tall tree, and Margaret lit candles at the bottom. With their task completed, they each stepped to a side. The only light in the room came from the soft glow of the illuminated tree, and the children quieted in awe of the sight before them. 

“Lovely,” Fanny sighed in contentment as she held each of her boys by the hand and admired the festive display.

“Very lovely,” John agreed, but his eyes were fixated on Margaret, whose features were made even more beautiful in the candlelight. The journey home was difficult, but he had been determined not to disappoint her. To be without seeing her on this day would be too much for John, who had grown more sentimental in marriage and fatherhood. Margaret was whispering something to Eleanor, who was eager to point at the tree and giggle, so she did not notice her husband’s unabashed stare at first. Then she happened to glance over their daughter’s head, and her eyes met John’s. They gazed at each other before they were interrupted by Watson, who announced his family really ought to be heading home.

The Thorntons bid the Watsons goodnight. Margaret reminded the children it was well past their bedtime. George and Rose protested being sent to bed, but Eleanor was already beginning to fall asleep in her grandmother’s arms. Mrs. Thornton offered to put the children to sleep, much to Margaret’s relief.

With the promise of a story from their grandmother if they behaved, George, Rose, and Eleanor lined up to bid their parents goodnight, receiving a kiss on the head from both Margaret and John.

“Shall we retire as well?” Margaret asked John as the children disappeared up the stairs and into the nursery. She began picking up some of the toys that lay forgotten on the ground.

“George loved the toy soldiers, and he and Fanny’s boys were entertained by them for quite some time. Rose and Eleanor held onto their dolls most of the evening, so I think the gifts were a success. I would like to hear about your trip, but you must be exhausted. We can talk about it in the morning if you wish,” Margaret carried on. She approached the tree with the candle snuffer in her hand.

“Margaret,” John said softly.

“Yes?” she replied, but before she could turn around, she felt his arms wrap around her waist as he embraced her from behind. Margaret’s hands touched his arms, and she leaned her head back into him. He planted a series of soft kisses on the nape of her neck as he nuzzled into her.

“Let’s not put the candles out quite yet,” he said softly.

“I’m surprised you want to keep them lit. Do you not complain every year that this is a fire hazard?” Margaret replied teasingly.

“It is,” John concurred. “But you remembered to wet the tree down, and it is very festive. Let me enjoy the company of my wife in the sight of a far too expensive and dangerous tree for what’s left of the night,” he said. Margaret touched his cheek softly and moved her head to invite him into a kiss. He happily obliged, his arms tightening around her as his lips met hers.

They were thus happily occupied for a few delicious moments, kissing in the glow of the Christmas tree.

“I have a gift for you,” John finally said between kisses.

“Oh?” Margaret responded in surprise, pulling away with her eyebrows raised at him. He let her go to reach into his coat pocket.

John held out an orange. Margaret laughed. The Milton market had been out of oranges all winter.

“Did you find this in Havre?” she asked.

“I did. I had to avoid crushing it or eating it on the way home,” John said. Margaret sat on the arm of the sofa they were near and began to peel the orange. He stood in front of her, in the bell of her dress. She popped a slice into his mouth and then ate one herself. They shared the fruit in companionable silence like this, comforted by their proximity after so many days of separation.

He watched her fondly, his head tilted to the side, taking her in as he did every day, for he treated every moment with her as his Christmas miracle from all those years ago. He would never tire of looking at her. Now that he had spent years observing her, in company and privately, John knew every movement of her face, so stately and reserved on the surface, but on closer inspection he discerned the way her eyebrows would perk slightly if something was not to her taste, the crinkle in her eyebrow when she was annoyed with him, how she licked the orange juice off her fingers in the most dignified manner she could manage, the flutter of her eyelashes when she looked at him with such love and a touch of mischievousness that she had hidden well from him early in their acquaintance, the way she squeezed her eyes shut and exposed her neck when…

“John?” she asked, matching the ridiculous grin he that had formed on his face with one of her own.

“I have missed you,” he said, leaning forward into her while placing one hand on either side of her. Margaret smiled, but held up her sticky hands. John offered her his handkerchief, now adorned with red and yellow roses, courtesy of Margaret.

“It was sweet of you to think of me while you were away. Thank you,” she said as she cleaned her hands to her satisfaction.

“Margaret, I thought of nothing but you and the children. I will never travel during this time of year again, no matter how tempting the investor’s offer,” John responded. She touched his chest for a minute and stared up at him adoringly.

“I am glad you are home,” she said as she reached up and carefully untied his cravat.

John, having already exhibited more restraint than he thought himself capable of, lowered his head to kiss her, his hands finding her hips through the fabric of her dress and gripping firmly to pull her closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, entering the now familiar, though no less thrilling, rhythm of their kiss.

Christmas was indeed Margaret and John’s favorite day of the year.

John knew he should whisk her up to their bedroom sooner rather than later, but her face illuminated by candlelight warmed him better than any fire could. As he leaned further into her, a light pattering of feet reached his ear.

“Papa,” came a voice from the dark hallway. Margaret gently pushed John back as he suppressed a groan. Another interrupted kiss. 

Rose entered the parlor and walked towards her parents.

“What are you doing out of bed, darling?” John asked gently. He knelt and opened his arms to her, and Rose quickly leapt into them.

“Can’t sleep,” Rose said in a matter-of-fact tone that was identical to her mother’s. John looked over Rose’s head to Margaret, and Margaret smiled.

“How about if we tuck you in and stay with you until you fall asleep?” John suggested. Rose nodded and nestled herself into her father’s arms. Margaret extinguished the candles on the tree one by one. John held Rose as he ascended the stairs, and Margaret followed closely behind.

The clock in the hall chimed the late hour, and another Thornton Christmas was at an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you dearest readers for joining me on this journey for the past month. It’s been a pleasure reading your comments and connecting with you. 
> 
> For most of us, this holiday season looks a lot different than it usually does. This year was difficult, and I hope this little fanfic added some lightness to your year. I wish all of you whatever you may need right now, whether it is health, strength, peace, or some fruit. ;) Take care.
> 
> PS: If you’re on twitter, follow me @barelytolerabIe if you like to hear all my musings and memes about North & South and Pride & Prejudice. 
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!


End file.
